tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-274265982016-12-02T06:33:34.572-05:00Pyr-o-maniaLisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.comBlogger1169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-23804190489078067672016-10-25T08:30:00.000-04:002016-10-25T08:30:18.300-04:00A perfect tale for Halloween<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Halloween is almost here, and there's nothing better than a supernatural story to get you in the mood! &nbsp;If you crave something other than witches and vampires and werewolves (oh my!) then Barbara Barnett's debut <i><a href="http://pyrsf.com/ApothecarysCurse.html">The&nbsp;Apothecary's Curse</a></i>&nbsp;might be just what you're looking for. Rene Sears, editorial director of Pyr, recently chatted with Barbara about her writing style and inspiration behind this tale of the true price of immortality. &nbsp;Read on for more!</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><b>-----------------------------------------------</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The lives of two men become entwined for centuries after an apothecary creates an elixir from an ancient manuscript. Physician Simon Bell and apothecary Gaelan Erceldoune are able to conceal their immortality, but the only hope for reversing their condition rests with the now missing manuscript. When a modern-day pharmaceutical company unearths diaries that could lead them to the fabled "elixir of life," Simon and Gaelan must race to find the manuscript before their secret is discovered.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OOVIC8mHMu0/WA6zZ5qMzuI/AAAAAAAAR5E/5FtsHp_7wWYk_Pp98UHtBujbiJQBRYlhACLcB/s1600/Apothecary%2527s%2BCurse_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OOVIC8mHMu0/WA6zZ5qMzuI/AAAAAAAAR5E/5FtsHp_7wWYk_Pp98UHtBujbiJQBRYlhACLcB/s400/Apothecary%2527s%2BCurse_cover.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rene Sears: I love the way the story in <i>The Apothecary's Curse</i> weaves through two timelines. What led you to such a that structure rather than a more linear timeline? <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Barbara Barnett</b>: My original road map told the story in a much more straightforward linear narrative. But as I wrote, two things happened. One, I realized I had to either do a very long time jump from 1842 to the modern-day story or fill in the story of the intervening years more fully, which would have led to quite a different (and much longer) novel than I desired. Second, as I developed the relationship between Gaelan and Anne Shawe, I began to see parallels with his Victorian-era story and I wanted to really explore that. So rather than keep it linear, I thought it would be much more interesting to integrate the two storylines, revealing both simultaneously.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>In the book, a geneticist speculates about human immortality in relation to Turritopsis dohrnii, the immortal jellyfish. How did you come to be interested in the jellyfish, and how did it relate to the genesis of some of your ideas for this book?</b> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew I didn’t want the immorality to be explainable only by some sort of magic event. That would never do for my skeptical hero Gaelan Erceldoune! He would say that all magic is simply science we did not yet understand, so I had to find science that might explain his immortality.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My undergrad studies were in biology and chemistry, and I have always been fascinated with genetics. So when I came across the 2009 Nobel Prize-winning research on the “immortal” jellyfish and its telomeres, I thought I’d hit on something that could play very well in my story. How can the jellyfish be immortal? Its extraordinarily sturdy telomeres (the chromosome end-caps, more or less) keep the keep the chromosomes from deteriorating and the jellyfish from aging. So, my fictional geneticist’s research is based upon the Nobel work and fueled by her family’s genetic history.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Js0-DwpaNSo/WA60qxXuVHI/AAAAAAAAR5Y/2ziIrlo7eGgYeyoL8e7qW-YWGrK_tP8GwCEw/s1600/BarnettAuthor%2BPhoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Js0-DwpaNSo/WA60qxXuVHI/AAAAAAAAR5Y/2ziIrlo7eGgYeyoL8e7qW-YWGrK_tP8GwCEw/s200/BarnettAuthor%2BPhoto.jpg" width="199" /></a><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">What goes into your writing process, and do you outlines before you write or discover as you go? <i>Apothercary's Curse</i> has such wonderful mood and atmosphere; I also wondered if you write to music, and if so, do you have a playlist for the book?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I tend to write road maps rather than hard and fast outlines. I keep in mind the classic “three-act” structure and put bullet points just under the chapter headings so I know where I want to go by the time I’ve gotten through a chapter. Beyond that, I really like the journey of discovery along with my characters. I started <i>The Apothecary’s Curse</i> with a fairly detailed road map, and then my characters took on a mind of their own, but even so, every time I got stuck or lost in the journey, my outline guided me back to where I wanted to be, at least in broad strokes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As far as writing to music goes, I’m a professional singer, and when I have music in the background, I get distracted and listen to the music. So I generally do not listen to music while writing. However, I <i>was</i> listening to music when I wrote the Simon’s first scene visiting Bedlam. I was listening to Mozart’s <i>Requiem</i>, and when I went back to re-read, I was stunned by the sheer number of musical metaphors that had found their way into that scene!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">The scenes in Bedlam seem really appropriate this close to Halloween! We'd love to know any scary details you came across about Bedlam in the course of your research. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bedlam was in itself a scary place—especially for the poor wretches sent there. I thought it was interesting that in the pre-psychiatry days, the doctors treating mental illness were called mad doctors. <i>Apothecary’s</i> “mad doctor” really is a <i>mad</i> doctor. So many of the treatments used there would now be considered extreme torture, and if a person wasn’t insane when admitted to Bedlam, he or she surely would be in short order. Horrendous experimentation on patients was common as were “freak shows” not unlike to which Gaelan was subjected. Many died at the hands of Bedlam’s mad doctors and were buried in mass graves on the grounds.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">And finally, particularly as you have written extensively and analytically about television shows, I'd like to hear what shows you're watching. :)</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My favorite shows right now are <i>Game of Thrones</i> on HBO, <i>Poldark</i>(season two is upon us!) on PBS, <i>Man in the High Castle</i> on Amazon (I’m a huge Philip K. Dick fan, and I adore alternate history stories). The newest one on my screen is <i>Designated Survivor</i> with Kiefer Sutherland. I was not a big fan of <i>24</i>, but I really liked the first episode a lot. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I watch <i>Once Upon a Time</i>, though not as intensely as I did during its first couple of seasons. I adore the mashups of fairy tale and mythology, and I liked their original take on Rumplestiltskin (yes, it’s spelled that way on the show!), especially as portrayed by Robert Carlyle (who would make a fantastic Gaelan Erceldoune, by the way!) but I think the show’s gotten a bit away from the original concept over the last two seasons, but I’ll keep watching and hoping.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m a politics junkie, so cable news is often my writing white noise, while <i>Real Time with Bill Mahler</i> and <i>Last Week Tonight</i> with John Oliver (both on HBO) are appointment TV for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;</span></o:p><b style="text-align: center;">-----------------------------------------------</b></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-9514913533082357202016-06-30T15:44:00.002-04:002016-06-30T15:44:25.291-04:00Whelp, Tom Cruise agrees.If you're looking for a fun, fast-paced book to pick up this summer then we've got you covered. In less than two weeks Laurence MacNaughton's urban fantasy <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/ItHappenedOneDoomsday.html">It Happened One Doomsday</a> comes out, and if you don't believe us when we say it's <i>highly </i>entertaining then take a look at its trailer!<br /><br />Seriously.<br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wJCWetidjhA" width="560"></iframe> <br /><br />July 12 can't come fast enough.</div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-55677297278013422672016-06-02T14:59:00.000-04:002016-06-02T14:59:51.465-04:00New for June!<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Re3XlvInUV8/V1BNDs6PH_I/AAAAAAAAQ0A/MZMKBLDOVTMi8cIejUPk2pM6JiqvkhMqwCLcB/s1600/Spear%2Bof%2BLight_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Re3XlvInUV8/V1BNDs6PH_I/AAAAAAAAQ0A/MZMKBLDOVTMi8cIejUPk2pM6JiqvkhMqwCLcB/s320/Spear%2Bof%2BLight_cover.jpg" width="212" /></a>In just five days (less than a week!) the second and final installment in Brenda Cooper's Glittering Edge duology,&nbsp;<a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/SpearofLight.html">Spear of Light</a>,&nbsp;hits shelves!&nbsp; Long ago, an advanced human society banished a group of near-AIs to the darkest corners of the galaxy. Now they've returned to build a new home for themselves next to the very race that tried to destroy them.<br /><br />If there's anyone you really should trust with your science fiction, it's Brenda Cooper. &nbsp;Why, you ask? &nbsp;Because she's a futurist. &nbsp;Her job is literally to <i>think about the future of mankind and our world</i>.<br /><br />To get yourself pumped up for this sequel, head to&nbsp;<a href="http://fantasyhotlist.blogspot.com/2016/05/extract-from-brenda-coopers-spear-of.html">Pat's Fantasy Hotlist</a> now to read the first chapter. Oh, and there's only one day left to enter the <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_choose_address/188121-spear-of-light">Goodreads giveaway </a>for a finished copy! <br /><br />If you're a fan of Cooper and have read <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/edgeofdark.html">Edge of Dark</a>, then you absolutely need to get your hands on this one. <i>Spear of Light </i>hits shelves this Tuesday!<br /><br /><br />Don't miss out on these other books by Brenda Cooper:<br /><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15897047-the-creative-fire"><img src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4vS7cZnjV4E/V1CAIWC7e4I/AAAAAAAAQ0Q/XUf6Lxic1A86bvnO5InPq0TAWf_kd8LsgCLcB/s1600/Creative%2BFire_cover.jpg" width="180" /></a></td><td><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17737089-the-diamond-deep"><img src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tFdjvpoE55I/V1CAZKIIXZI/AAAAAAAAQ0U/fpwwQDho47AkYNzDCOD0ZvPfaRx1352dwCLcB/s1600/Diamond%2BDeep_cover.jpg" width="180" /></a></td><td><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22822946-edge-of-dark"><img src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vHaztqZLrws/V1CAaTxtO2I/AAAAAAAAQ0Y/NGY-ehSabf0Xm4Uuimgh-F9uuxhDcGhfwCLcB/s1600/Edge%2Bof%2BDark_cover.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-63551671902325138672016-04-22T10:32:00.001-04:002016-04-22T12:01:50.190-04:00New cover alert!Ok so it's actually been a couple of days since we <i>officially </i>released the cover for Laurence MacNaughton's <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27405594-it-happened-one-doomsday?from_search=true&amp;search_version=service">It Happened One Doomsday</a>, but here it is!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CgF7wZ5awLg/Vxo0ydrNipI/AAAAAAAAQNQ/Q66RVwAlStcvnubVuyoYWUWjvwqs2QP4QCLcB/s1600/It%2BHappened%2Bone%2BDoomsday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CgF7wZ5awLg/Vxo0ydrNipI/AAAAAAAAQNQ/Q66RVwAlStcvnubVuyoYWUWjvwqs2QP4QCLcB/s640/It%2BHappened%2Bone%2BDoomsday.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Magic is real. Only a handful of natural-born sorcerers can wield its arcane power against demons, foul creatures, and the forces of darkness. These protectors of the powerless are descendants of an elite order. The best magic-users in the world.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Unfortunately, Dru isn’t one of them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Sure, she’s got a smidge of magical potential. She can use crystals to see enchantments or brew up an occasional potion. And she can research practically anything in the library of dusty leather-bound tomes she keeps stacked in the back of her little store. There, sandwiched between a pawn shop and a 24-hour liquor mart, she sells enough crystals, incense, and magic charms to scrape by. But everything changes the day a handsome mechanic pulls up in a possessed black muscle car, his eyes glowing red.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Just being near Greyson raises Dru’s magical powers to dizzying heights. But he’s been cursed to transform into a demonic creature that could bring about the end of the world.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Then she discovers that the Harbingers, seven fallen sorcerers, want to wipe the planet clean of humans and install themselves as new lords of an unfettered magical realm. And when they unearth the Apocalypse Scroll, the possibility of a fiery cosmic do-over suddenly becomes very real. &nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There’s only one chance to break Greyson’s curse and save the world from a fiery Doomsday – and it’s about to fall into Dru’s magically inexperienced hands....</div><br /><b>Look for it in stores July 12!</b><br /><br />Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-8640038401755338232016-04-05T12:45:00.003-04:002016-04-05T12:45:31.867-04:00Countdown to Masks and Shadows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-32SWLP-ZVxw/VwPonmWEaCI/AAAAAAAAP5Y/jm7zrS3K8mYrXfZN3mnEhAelJfa11roVQ/s1600/Masks%2Band%2BShadows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-32SWLP-ZVxw/VwPonmWEaCI/AAAAAAAAP5Y/jm7zrS3K8mYrXfZN3mnEhAelJfa11roVQ/s400/Masks%2Band%2BShadows.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>Only one week left until the highly anticipated release of Stephanie Burgis's adult debut <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25893822-masks-and-shadows?from_search=true&amp;search_version=service">Masks and Shadows</a>! Travel back to a time of grand music, dark magic, and deadly secrets...<br /><br />The year is 1779, and Carlo Morelli, the most renowned castrato singer in Europe, has been invited as an honored guest to Eszterháza Palace. With Carlo in Prince Nikolaus Esterházy's carriage, ride a Prussian spy and one of the most notorious alchemists in the Habsburg Empire. Already at Eszterháza is Charlotte von Steinbeck, the very proper sister of Prince Nikolaus's mistress. Charlotte has retreated to the countryside to mourn her husband's death. Now, she must overcome the ingrained rules of her society in order to uncover the dangerous secrets lurking within the palace's golden walls. Music, magic, and blackmail mingle in a plot to assassinate the Habsburg Emperor and Empress--a plot that can only be stopped if Carlo and Charlotte can see through the masks worn by everyone they meet.<br /><br /><br />Can't wait to get your hand on a copy? &nbsp;Thanks to technology, you can travel back in time via Pinterest! &nbsp;It, uh, can't send you to the future when <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25893822-masks-and-shadows?from_search=true&amp;search_version=service">Masks and Shadows</a> it out yet though. &nbsp;Sorry.<br /><br /><a data-pin-board-width="400" data-pin-do="embedBoard" data-pin-scale-height="200" data-pin-scale-width="80" href="https://www.pinterest.com/pyrbooks/all-things-masks-and-shadows/"> Follow Pyr® books's board All things Masks and Shadows on Pinterest.</a><!-- Please call pinit.js only once per page --><script async="" src="//assets.pinterest.com/js/pinit.js" type="text/javascript"></script> Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-81719114201483363422016-03-07T14:45:00.002-05:002016-03-15T09:29:22.782-04:00Gats, goons, and ghosts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eI7HREnQosA/Vt3JdRDVW5I/AAAAAAAAPgc/hCuqKEUIDL4/s1600/Black%2BCity%2BSaint_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eI7HREnQosA/Vt3JdRDVW5I/AAAAAAAAPgc/hCuqKEUIDL4/s320/Black%2BCity%2BSaint_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">“Brimming with authentic vernacular and a glimpse into the world of Al Capone and his cronies, <i>Black City Saint </i>is historical fantasy at its best. From bootleggers and shadow goons to ancient enchanted swords and tommy guns, the unique combination is exhilarating. This is a fast moving tale of power, love, loss, and redemption."</div><div style="text-align: center;">—<b><i>Foreword Reviews</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Get your hands on the newest book by&nbsp;the <i>New York Times</i>- and <i>USA Today</i>-bestselling author Richard A. Knaak, <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/BlackCitySaint.html">Black City Saint</a>! &nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div><div>For more than sixteen hundred years, Nick Medea has followed and guarded the Gate that keeps the mortal and Feirie realms separate, seeking absolution for the fatal errors he made when he slew the dragon. All the while, he has tried and failed to keep the woman he loves from dying over and over.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet for the past fifty years the Gate has, unknowingly to him, been open for the darkest Feirie-folk to enter the world of 1920s Chicago. Now, not only has an evil been resurrected from Nick’s own past, but also his lost Cleolinda, destined once more to die.</div><div><br /></div><div>Does Nick have the strength to protect the way between realms and destroy the most vicious creature to ever walked in both worlds?&nbsp;</div><div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Available now!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/black-city-saint-richard-a-knaak/1122454917?ean=9781633881365">Barnes &amp; Noble</a> - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Black-City-Saint-richard-Knaak/dp/1633881369/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1446486934&amp;sr=1-1&amp;keywords=Black+City+Saint+++by+Richard+A.+Knaak">Amazon </a>- <a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781633881365">Indiebound </a>- <a href="http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Black-City-Saint/Richard-A-Knaak/9781633881365?id=6418125304751">Books-A-Million</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-48394750240841746512016-01-28T15:05:00.000-05:002016-03-15T09:29:59.614-04:00Get your hands on some ARCs!Over at Goodreads we've got giveaways up for two of our biggest books coming this Spring. Enter now before they're over!<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AfCjSLLghrE/Vqptxn9pauI/AAAAAAAAPBM/xILMN1CeU0w/s1600/Black%2BCity%2BSaint_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AfCjSLLghrE/Vqptxn9pauI/AAAAAAAAPBM/xILMN1CeU0w/s640/Black%2BCity%2BSaint_cover.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><br />Chicago,1920s. For more than sixteen hundred years, Nick Medea has followed and guarded the Gate between the mortal realm and Feirie, seeking absolution for the fatal errors he made when he slew the Dragon. All that while, he has tried and failed to keep the woman he loves from dying over and over.<br /><br />Yet in the fifty years since the Night the Dragon Breathed over the city of Chicago, the darkest of the Feirie­folk have been secretly trespassing through the Gate. Now, not only has an evil been resurrected from Nick’s own past, but also his lost Cleolinda, destined once more to die.<br /><br />Amidst a brewing gang war between Prohibition bootleggers, Nick must protect the way between realms. &nbsp;If he fails, not only might Chicago face a fate worse than the Great Fire, but so will the rest of the mortal world.<br /><div><br /></div><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_choose_address/170438-black-city-saint">Enter now!</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_choose_address/167066-masks-and-shadows"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uOWUilA4Zug/VqplZgsLZEI/AAAAAAAAPA8/7EOC1XK3BT0/s640/Masks%2Band%2BShadows.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />The year is 1779, and Carlo Morelli, the most renowned castrato singer in Europe, has been invited as an honored guest to Eszterháza Palace. With Carlo in Prince Nikolaus Esterházy's carriage, ride a Prussian spy and one of the most notorious alchemists in the Habsburg Empire. Already at Eszterháza is Charlotte von Steinbeck, the very proper sister of Prince Nikolaus's mistress. Charlotte has retreated to the countryside to mourn her husband's death. Now, she must overcome the ingrained rules of her society in order to uncover the dangerous secrets lurking within the palace's golden walls.<br /><br />Music, magic, and blackmail mingle in a plot to assassinate the Habsburg Emperor and Empress--a plot that can only be stopped if Carlo and Charlotte can see through the masks worn by everyone they meet.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_choose_address/167066-masks-and-shadows">Enter now!</a>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-85176744672904351492016-01-15T15:36:00.001-05:002016-01-15T15:36:17.901-05:00Start something new this weekend<span style="font-family: inherit;">Check-in time. &nbsp;We're almost halfway through January...have you ditched your New Year's Resolutions yet? &nbsp;If your resolution is to start something new, or even to save money, then you should be doubly excited to hear about this. &nbsp;As part of the<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/b/first-in-series-nook-books/_/N-rjn"> Barnes &amp; Noble "First in Series"</a> promotion you can get the below series starters for only $2.99 each until Monday January 18th!</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br /><table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" class="BlockMargin" id="content_LETTER.BLOCK14" style="background-color: white; color: black; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100%px;"><tbody><tr><td class="MainText" colspan="1" rowspan="1"><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a class="imgCaptionAnchor" href="http://www.pyrsf.com/fortressinorion.html" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" target="_blank" track="on"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img align="left" border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/0621084c-5330-4afb-871f-5f9353048c23.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="270" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.1021" vspace="5" width="180" /></span></a></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"This is space opera at its best -- simultaneously pulse-pounding and mind-expanding. [He] is the twenty-first century's master of excitement and adventure. Enjoy!"</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">-&nbsp;<strong>Robert J. Sawyer</strong>, Hugo Award-winning author of&nbsp;<em>Red Planet Blues</em></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Dead Enders are a team of military heroes who only take the most impossible missions in a galactic war between humans and an alien race. Clone a high-ranking general, infiltrate the enemy fortress, and escape without getting caught? Just another day in the office.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fortress-Orion-DEAD-ENDERS-ebook/dp/B00KUQAHAW/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1415203887&amp;sr=1-1&amp;keywords=The+Fortress+in+Orion+by+Mike+Resnick"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/1cd3e3b5-6091-4ca8-8d7f-8cb8bd46c199.png?a=1123454163629" height="39" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.799" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-fortress-in-orion-mike-resnick/1118889377?ean=9781616149918"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/068e4559-3165-453f-8e94-baaf1bce4376.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="26" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.800" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-fortress-in-orion/id887134172?mt=11"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/e3a643aa-bce8-47b2-912f-e5a911bd3daf.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="34" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.796" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;</span></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="BlockMargin" style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100%px;"><tbody><tr><td bgcolor="#B24600" class="Divider" colspan="1" height="1" rowspan="1" style="background-color: #b24600;"></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" class="BlockMargin" id="content_LETTER.BLOCK21" style="background-color: white; color: black; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100%px;"><tbody><tr><td class="MainText" colspan="1" rowspan="1"><div align="left" style="color: maroon; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a class="imgCaptionAnchor" href="http://www.pyrsf.com/swordofthebrightlady.html" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" target="_blank" track="on"><img align="left" border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/b00d8852-5aa4-4776-a88a-36a75d5d3b7d.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="271" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.1017" vspace="5" width="180" /></a></span><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"<em>Sword of the Bright Lady</em>&nbsp;is an exciting new take on the modern-man-meets-magic conflict -- it's a how-to guide for surviving in a world of gods and monsters."</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">-&nbsp;<strong>Dave Gross</strong>, author of<i> Prince of Wolves</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Christopher Sinclair, a contemporary man from Earth, will overthrow the entire social and political system of a fantasy world he accidentally entered in order to return home to his wife.&nbsp;</span></div></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sword-Bright-Lady-WORLD-PRIME-ebook/dp/B00J1HDEH4/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&amp;qid=1401296108&amp;sr=1-1"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/1cd3e3b5-6091-4ca8-8d7f-8cb8bd46c199.png?a=1123454163629" height="39" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.799" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sword-of-the-bright-lady-mc-planck/1117737120?ean=9781616149895"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/068e4559-3165-453f-8e94-baaf1bce4376.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="26" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.800" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>&nbsp;<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/sword-of-the-bright-lady/id841785354?mt=11"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/e3a643aa-bce8-47b2-912f-e5a911bd3daf.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="34" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.796" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;</span></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div></div></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="BlockMargin" style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100%px;"><tbody><tr><td bgcolor="#B24600" class="Divider" colspan="1" height="1" rowspan="1" style="background-color: #b24600;"></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" class="BlockMargin" id="content_LETTER.BLOCK22" style="background-color: white; color: black; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100%px;"><tbody><tr><td class="MainText" colspan="1" rowspan="1"><div align="left" style="color: maroon; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">&nbsp;</span><span style="color: black; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</span><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"></span></span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"></span></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><a class="imgCaptionAnchor" href="http://www.pyrsf.com/grudgebearer.html" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" target="_blank" track="on"><img align="left" border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/d3e56540-c91a-4111-a077-d20595cd4e80.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="270" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.1019" vspace="5" width="180" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Peopled with compelling characters, filled with action and intrigue, set in a fascinating world at the boundary between history and legend,&nbsp;<em>Grudgebearer</em>&nbsp;is a gripping and ultimately satisfying novel. Highly recommended."</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">-&nbsp;<strong>D. B. Jackson</strong>, author of the Thieftaker Chronicles</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The leader of a warrior race works with his daughter to</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;overcome their people's enslaved past and secure their future in a struggle against their creators, the enemy they were bred to battle, the oaths they have sworn, and the gods themselves.<br /></span><br /></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: normal;"><a class="imgCaptionAnchor" href="http://www.amazon.com/Grudgebearer-GRUDGEBEARER-TRILOGY-J-F-Lewis-ebook/dp/B00IW4DP1C/ref=sr_1_1_twi_kin_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1452627391&amp;sr=1-1&amp;keywords=grudgebearer" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" target="_blank" track="on"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/1cd3e3b5-6091-4ca8-8d7f-8cb8bd46c199.png?a=1123454163629" height="39" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.799" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;<a class="imgCaptionAnchor" href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/grudgebearer-jf-lewis/1117737119?ean=9781616149857" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" target="_blank" track="on"><img border="0" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/068e4559-3165-453f-8e94-baaf1bce4376.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="26" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.800" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/grudgebearer/id837558272?mt=11"><img border="0" class="cc-image-resize" src="http://files.ctctcdn.com/fb4884e7001/e3a643aa-bce8-47b2-912f-e5a911bd3daf.jpg?a=1123454163629" height="34" hspace="5" name="ACCOUNT.IMAGE.796" vspace="5" width="95" /></a>&nbsp;</span></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-top: 0px;"></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-67486388268519873632015-12-18T10:56:00.000-05:002015-12-18T10:56:10.325-05:00#Season'sGreetingsEveryone knows who's coming down our chimneys next week. If you plan on starting your shopping this weekend―well, good luck. Even if you started shopping before the bird was on the table last month, there are always a few people who seem impossible to shop for (or who you forgot!) &nbsp;So to cover all your last-minute gifting needs, here are some ideas for the readers on your list:<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b>Action, adventure, and humanity against the world</b></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JaMWtJp445Q/VnMY06K79KI/AAAAAAAAOMo/5b2x2dYns84/s1600/Geomancer_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JaMWtJp445Q/VnMY06K79KI/AAAAAAAAOMo/5b2x2dYns84/s320/Geomancer_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fm4wVwOO4-E/VnMY43kLI2I/AAAAAAAAOMw/NtpGTIabeWU/s1600/Rising%2BTide_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fm4wVwOO4-E/VnMY43kLI2I/AAAAAAAAOMw/NtpGTIabeWU/s320/Rising%2BTide_cover.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b>A fresh take on the vampire legends&nbsp;</b></span></div><br /><table><tbody><tr><td>&lt;<img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiCwSa8Ji7o/VnMdagUKYHI/AAAAAAAAOM8/36h5mTpXrbA/s1600/Greyfriar%2BFront%2BCOVER%2BREPRINT.jpg" width="160" /></td><td><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y68gx26z-yg/VnMddfPzmAI/AAAAAAAAONE/rQ5T7pIfsg8/s1600/Rift%2BWalker.jpg" width="160" /></td><td><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_KsyRcT1QHY/VnMdij6AvaI/AAAAAAAAONM/fquYOqHOPMQ/s1600/Kingmakers.jpg" width="160" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: large;">How about some fantasy on an epic level?</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UQivQLvN33c/UzRFh6iBeDI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/MdsnXmu_UNU/s1600/Blood%2Band%2BIron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UQivQLvN33c/UzRFh6iBeDI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/MdsnXmu_UNU/s320/Blood%2Band%2BIron.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7TKuGWCdIBw/VZv-kdl2HvI/AAAAAAAAIrs/5jqTU825D_Y/s1600/Storm%2Band%2BSteel_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7TKuGWCdIBw/VZv-kdl2HvI/AAAAAAAAIrs/5jqTU825D_Y/s320/Storm%2Band%2BSteel_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b>We're talking dragons and killer dwarves</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5pMVp1YrLTA/VnMSYDxQVlI/AAAAAAAAOMI/DJfYu-pK3aA/s1600/Chart%2Bof%2BTomorrows_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5pMVp1YrLTA/VnMSYDxQVlI/AAAAAAAAOMI/DJfYu-pK3aA/s320/Chart%2Bof%2BTomorrows_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xeRR87XUuuw/VnMSi1HH-oI/AAAAAAAAOMY/YYA6T4xr9GQ/s1600/Oathkeeper_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xeRR87XUuuw/VnMSi1HH-oI/AAAAAAAAOMY/YYA6T4xr9GQ/s320/Oathkeeper_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="left" style="text-align: center;">﻿<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b>Thrillers with a quantum physics twist</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_5pA-8X7p-Y/VZv-UmYvvGI/AAAAAAAAIrg/btupT8R6GkU/s1600/Superposition_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_5pA-8X7p-Y/VZv-UmYvvGI/AAAAAAAAIrg/btupT8R6GkU/s320/Superposition_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v7ANyK1YvVI/VY2Y3U9sDfI/AAAAAAAAIDg/Ww4PS46OE70/s1600/Supersymmetrey_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v7ANyK1YvVI/VY2Y3U9sDfI/AAAAAAAAIDg/Ww4PS46OE70/s320/Supersymmetrey_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Gimme the science fiction, but take it out of this world</span>&nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=27426598" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=27426598" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nSz6-oJY-Mg/VRAwaFi-hjI/AAAAAAAAEeM/H7jufUgpiMg/s1600/Edge%2Bof%2BDark_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nSz6-oJY-Mg/VRAwaFi-hjI/AAAAAAAAEeM/H7jufUgpiMg/s320/Edge%2Bof%2BDark_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6lPM0HepaQI/VKwOhiiIiUI/AAAAAAAAEL4/DmgOuczJhDM/s1600/Fortress%2Bin%2BOrion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6lPM0HepaQI/VKwOhiiIiUI/AAAAAAAAEL4/DmgOuczJhDM/s320/Fortress%2Bin%2BOrion.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b>BONUS! Be their favorite aunt or uncle and get the entire series</b></span></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><table><tbody><tr><td><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hP6vr2y6vXI/VnMNJ1OZjrI/AAAAAAAAOLU/frypfHny5wY/s1600/Earth%2BGirl_cover.jpg" width="160" /></td><td><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MfVVu1Krzh4/VnMNK8jXPCI/AAAAAAAAOLc/nFwsrF2NbVk/s320/Earth%2BStar_Cover.jpg" td="" width="160" /></td><td><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gkV-kLaMXjo/VnMNM-gSMkI/AAAAAAAAOLk/hqBjAE599LQ/s1600/Earth%2BFlight_cover.jpg" width="160" /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AwqBEoVOqLc/VnMN7dPB3sI/AAAAAAAAOLs/2rtXztkup4k/s1600/23%2BYears%2Bon%2BFire%2Bcover.jpg" width="160" /></td><td><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pUoKoC-4yHA/VnMN9edmc4I/AAAAAAAAOL0/KW__0FN6GH0/s1600/operation%2Bshield_cover.jpg" width="160" /></td><td><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C6vNOgntXPQ/VnMN_8i5j0I/AAAAAAAAOL8/U6ogNao9-n0/s1600/ORIGINATOR_cover.jpg" width="160" /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b>When all else fails, settle for a bit of everything</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6SL7ydR6Lr4/VnQsGMGDrZI/AAAAAAAAOO4/DRRNvhTMxkQ/s1600/Nebula%2BAwards%2BShowcase%2B2015_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6SL7ydR6Lr4/VnQsGMGDrZI/AAAAAAAAOO4/DRRNvhTMxkQ/s320/Nebula%2BAwards%2BShowcase%2B2015_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-44577845460685662482015-11-13T15:32:00.001-05:002015-11-13T15:32:49.482-05:00Want to put your love to the test? The Buzzfeed test, that is. <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/TheGeomancer.html" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h1YboLzkDXQ/VkZG8EuPztI/AAAAAAAANa4/7Yrpt6qRWSU/s320/Geomancer_cover.jpg" width="213" /></a>Yeah ok so we all know Adele and Gareth are an amazing couple, and if you didn't already then...surprise! &nbsp;And just when our hearts were finally healing after being separated so long, Clay and Susan brought back the deadly duo in the newest Vampire Empire book&nbsp;<a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/TheGeomancer.html">The Geomancer</a>!<br /><br />Are you and yours like Adele and Gareth? &nbsp;Or are you a bit more at odds like, say, Katniss and Peeta? &nbsp;Are you ready to test your love? Well it's not that kind of test, exactly. &nbsp;It's less intense than a test, makes up much less of your GPA, so let's call it a quiz.<br /><br />Want to know which crossed couple best matches your relationship?<br /><br /><b>Take the <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/prometheusbooks/which-star-crossed-couple-matches-your-relationshi-1po55">Buzzfeed Quiz</a> now!</b><br /><br /><br />Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-10208165167632946152015-10-29T11:58:00.000-04:002015-10-29T11:58:04.636-04:00Gold Throne in Shadow by M. C. PlanckIf you read epic fantasy, you know the tropes can get a little bit stale. &nbsp;We admit, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being in the mood for a good, old-fashioned, sword-filled journey to find the thing that will save mankind. But every once in a while you just need someone to shake it up a bit.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tgr-9bglSOM/VjI5CQNeQvI/AAAAAAAAM_M/gkCkErD9kKc/s1600/Sword%2Bof%2BBright%2BLady_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tgr-9bglSOM/VjI5CQNeQvI/AAAAAAAAM_M/gkCkErD9kKc/s320/Sword%2Bof%2BBright%2BLady_cover.jpg" width="212" /></a><br />Take M. C. Planck's World of Prime books. In <i><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/swordofthebrightlady.html">Sword of the Bright Lady</a>,</i>&nbsp;Christopher Sinclair goes out for a walk on a mild Arizona evening and never comes back. He stumbles into a freezing winter under an impossible night sky, where magic is real—but bought at a terrible price. To win enough power to open a path home, this mild-mannered mechanical engineer must survive duelists, assassins, and the never-ending threat of monsters, with only his makeshift technology to compete with swords and magic.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6cDhSQ4EEfw/VjIy9yOyZCI/AAAAAAAAM-g/QgKae7lUGLk/s1600/Gold%2BThrone_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6cDhSQ4EEfw/VjIy9yOyZCI/AAAAAAAAM-g/QgKae7lUGLk/s400/Gold%2BThrone_Cover.jpg" width="266" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Planck infuses his world with the life and death rules of your favorite RPG. Kill your enemies, take their power, and move up the ranks until you win. In this month's newly released&nbsp;<i><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/goldthroneinshadow.html">Gold Throne in Shadow</a></i>, Sinclair has just used one of his lives to rise from the dead. &nbsp;Finding his way back home may not be nearly as easy as he once hoped when he discovers the true enemy: an invisible, mind-eating horror who plays the kingdom like a puppet-master’s stage.<br /><br />Plus the cover of <i>Gold Throne in Shadow</i> reminds me of fall. &nbsp;So what if the world is actually on fire? The oranges and yellows match the view out my window and I DON'T CARE.<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; <i>Gold Throne in Shadow </i>is available now.<div><br /><table style="text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gold-Throne-Shadow-WORLD-PRIME/dp/1633880966/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1433427013&amp;sr=1-1-fkmr0&amp;keywords=Gold+Throne+in+Shadow++World+of+Prime+Book+Two++M.+C.+Planck"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h3krD1ENMDE/VjJAKUGqF1I/AAAAAAAAM_Y/dbwe0CD9mtc/s200/Amazon%2Bimage.png" width="115" /></a></div></td><td><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gold-throne-in-shadow-mc-planck/1121090529?ean=9781633880962"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SHpKOPbQCxk/VjJAK9i-0qI/AAAAAAAAM_k/WGw-NEgsRDI/s1600/B%2526N.jpg" width="115" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Gold-Throne-Shadow/M-C-Planck/9781633880962?id=5649160808690"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CcDcqcQSjbo/VjJAKmR77eI/AAAAAAAAM_c/r5Y5JMarBuA/s1600/BAM.jpg" width="115" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781633880962"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WkuaqGXL3_c/VjJALNQzf6I/AAAAAAAAM_g/qrMGfLCWJjo/s1600/indiebound.jpg" width="115" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-26096087084906253062015-10-06T15:56:00.001-04:002015-10-06T15:56:57.863-04:00Rising Tide is out today!<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ItIIVsbqAwU/VhQkCFEnTNI/AAAAAAAAMPk/seLHlL7PNxQ/s1600/Rising%2BTide_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ItIIVsbqAwU/VhQkCFEnTNI/AAAAAAAAMPk/seLHlL7PNxQ/s400/Rising%2BTide_cover.jpg" width="266" /></span></a>“A cool world with steampunk and zombies combined. . . . The voice is very real and gritty and I felt immersed in the world. Abercombie-edgy and a quick read at that.”</div>--<i><b>Felicia Day</b></i><br /><br />“<i>Falling Sky</i> grabbed me right away and held me to the last sentence. . . . [It’s] like Hemingway meets <i>The Walking Dead</i>.”<br />--<i><b>Tad Williams</b></i><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br />Rajan Khanna is back this month (today, actually) with his latest action packed adventure <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/risingtide.html">Rising Tide</a>. Ben Gold sacrificed his ship in an effort to prevent pirates from attacking the hidden island city of Tamoanchan. Now Malik, an old friend turned enemy, has captured Ben and Miranda, the scientist Ben loves. With Miranda held hostage, Ben has to do Malik’s dirty work.<br /><br />Miranda has plans of her own, though. She has developed a test for the virus that two generations ago turned most of the population into little more than beasts called Ferals. She needs Ben’s help to rescue a group of her colleagues to perfect the test—but first they must rescue themselves.<br /><br />Check out the first chapter excerpt below to dive (pun totally intended. &nbsp;You'll see.) into this post-apocalyptic world!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________________</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="WordSection1"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Arial Narrow', sans-serif; font-size: 25pt; letter-spacing: 2.5pt;">CHAPTER ONE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Arial Narrow', sans-serif; letter-spacing: 2.5pt;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">T</span></b><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">he lights come and wake me from dying.</span><b><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">At least I must be dying because I’m wet and cold and bleeding and every­thing seems broken inside of me. All around me I can smell smoke and burning gas and the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Inside of me, a voice insists that there’s something next to me. Something good. Something to save me. But when I try to turn, everything goes black again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Death hovers, close by.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">The lights bring me back, dancing over me with a roaring hum. I remember stories I read when I was a kid, stories of angels—bright, blinding, flying angels. Have they finally come for me?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Some moments pass, my head spinning, and then they’re lifting me up, out of the raft, and into the sky. <i>Where are you taking me? </i>I want to ask. But I can’t. And something about leaving the ocean, going up into the sky, feels right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">More time passes—hands touching me that I can’t shrug off. I slip away once or twice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">When I awake again, I hear someone saying to take me to the infirmary. It’s apt because I’m very fucking infirm. Anyone would be after the last few days I’ve had. Beaten, shot, strung out on painkillers, beaten again, stabbed, then dropped from an exploding airship into cold ocean waters.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Well, when I say <i>dropped</i>, I mean more like I jumped. But it seemed like a good idea at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Thinking about that makes me think of the <i>Cherub</i>, my airship, which was named after angels, and the last time I saw her, ripping apart into a bright fire­ball as I fell. It brings on pain of a different flavor. She was more than just my home—she was my safety, my security, my freedom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“Miranda,” I manage to gasp. She’s the other woman in my life. Or rather, the one who’s left. She fell with me, into the ocean. We somehow both managed </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">to survive, huddled in the bottom of a life raft, clinging to one another, wet and </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">cold, our ears still ringing from the explosion, flames still dotting the water</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">where the fiery wreckage fell.</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">We lay there, together, and I couldn’t even think. All I did was hold Miranda </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">and take comfort in the fact that we were alive and together and she was solid in </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">my arms. Later, I thought that if we managed to make it through the night into </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">the morning, that we might have a shot.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">She was what was next to me, I remember. She’s what I was trying to find.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Miranda,” I repeat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Who?” a voice asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“That’s her name,” another voice replies. “The woman.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Where is she?” I ask. “Is she okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“She’ll be back soon,” one of the voices says.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">I reach up for the arms nearest me, grip them as hard as I can. “No,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">“I need to know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Then my grip wavers and my arms go watery and the person pulls away <span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;">from my grasp. “Give him another one,” a voice says.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Then I feel a sharp pinch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">And the world draws away around me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">&nbsp;* &nbsp; * &nbsp; *</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 108.35pt; margin-right: 109.1pt; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">I’m below the ocean, only this time it’s warm and thick, not the shocking, freezing thing it was after I fell. It’s comfortable. Almost welcoming. I find this amusing since I have always preferred the sky. But slowly I feel myself start to rise and the air gets thinner and brighter, and then I’m opening my eyes to . . . light.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I smell metal and the sea and antiseptic. As my vision clears, I realize I’m lying on a table—cold metal, but with some kind of tarp draped over it. I’m not wearing a shirt, and my wounds have been bandaged. I ache, but the pain is dulled, lost in the wake of the painkillers I’ve apparently been given.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">A woman wearing a surgical mask sees me stir, then leaves the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">As I sit up, feeling the skin pulling on my wounds, and grunting because of it, the door opens again and a man enters what I now realize is the infirmary.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">The metal tables and the counters and instruments all paint the picture. But my attention is drawn to the man.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Malik.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He’s looking better than he was the last time I saw him. His skin is tanned by the sun to a light-brown color. He’s wearing his black hair long and he has an extremely neatly trimmed beard, which is a nice trick, seeing as how most of the tools for that kind of thing have long since turned to shit. He stands at the edge of my table and eyes me up and down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Mal,” I say, suddenly on edge. “You’re alive.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Benjamin,” he says, like he just picked a bullet out of his teeth. “As sharp as ever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“My God,” I say. “I had no idea.” I feel something hard lodge in my chest. “Thank you for patching me up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .15in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He shakes his head. Like everything he does, it’s a precise movement, no wasted energy. “That wasn’t me. That was courtesy of your companion.” “Miranda?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">He nods.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“How is she? Where is she? I need to see her.” I start to get up off the table, but he pushes me back, firmly and precisely, and my chest erupts into a constel­lation of pain despite the drugs I’m on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“You don’t get to make demands,” he says, and I see his carefully cultivated mask slip for a moment. What’s behind is rage. And I know exactly why. Mal and I go way back, and our last meeting didn’t end so well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He straightens and examines his gloves. “Miranda is safe and unharmed, Benjamin. That will have to suffice for now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">My mind races, then falls back into an old, familiar pattern of movement. Even through the painkillers it’s a place I’m used to—assess, look for opportuni­ties, survive. It’s clear that Mal isn’t happy with me, and I’m not sure I blame him. But he still pulled me out of the ocean. Still let Miranda patch me up. So I’m on unsteady ground. I don’t know what he wants. And so I can’t use that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“What happened to you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He knows what I’m asking. How did he survive? What happened after I saw him last?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He looks away for a moment. “Pardon me if I don’t feel like digging up ancient history,” he says. “I have no wish to reminisce about old times.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“I get that you’re mad at me—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Mal slams his fist down on the edge of the table and I jump, again feeling the pain ripple through me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Mad? Mad?” He shakes his head, his face twisted with disgust. “You con­tinue to underestimate me, Benjamin.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I take a deep breath. “So why am I here? You didn’t need to fish me out of the water.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Mal takes a deep breath, too, smoothing his long hair back from his face where it had fallen. He straightens his jacket. His face returns to its impassive state. “My people saw the wreckage in the water. Fresh wreckage.” He shrugs. “Old habits. They were checking for salvage . . . and information.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“What kind of information?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“What do you think, Benjamin? You’re telling me that if you saw that kind of fallout, it wouldn’t attract your attention? We’re operating in these waters. Knowing what’s happening around us is only prudent.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I try to process all of this, and it’s hard with the painkillers dragging on my thoughts. <i>C’mon, Ben. Get it together</i>. I return to the phrase “we’re operating in these waters.” Could Mal be working with Gastown?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">I look back up at him to see him examining my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Are you working with Gastown?” I ask. It isn’t subtle, and it’s not what I had planned to say (as far as I planned anything) but it just spills out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He squints, then shakes his head. “No. Neither in its former nor current incarnations.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">That’s how Mal likes to speak. Never a simple word when a more ornate one will do. In that way he’s a little like Miranda.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I nod. “Those were Gastown ships in the water. Them and the <i>Cherub</i>.” I feel a pain when I mention my airship. I’ve heard tell of people having phantom pains in lost limbs. Could you have that for an airship?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“I know this already,” Mal says. “Your companion told me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I frown. “You still haven’t told me why I’m here, then. If Miranda told you what happened, you could have dropped me back in the ocean.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .35in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“I thought of it,” he says with a smile. “Believe me, I thought of it.” “But?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to know that I survived.” He waves a hand in the air, nonchalantly. “I have no illusions that it will provoke a response, but I needed you to know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I nod. It’s classic Mal. His ego has always been one of his most developed attributes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“So now that I know, now you toss me in the ocean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">His face goes serious. “No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">“No?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">“No. Your companion and I—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Miranda.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“. . . Miranda and I came to an agreement.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">My head is still swimming, and none of this is making sense. Mal is alive. And wants to kill me. Yet </span><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I’m </span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">still alive. And he made a deal with Miranda?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“We always have need for people with medical training,” he says. He shrugs. “She made her skills known to me. But . . .” He pauses for a moment. “She’s quite shrewd. She insisted that she demonstrate her skills. On you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">It’s such a nice piece of negotiation that I can’t help smiling. It’s the kind of thing I usually try to do—identify a need, make myself useful, benefit. She not only secured a safe space for herself, but she saved me in the process.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“All I can say is that you’re very lucky,” Mal says. “None of my people would have worked on you. Not in your state. Not without quarantine. And you probably would have died, otherwise. I locked her in here with you, with some medical supplies, and she worked on you through the quarantine period. That you’re alive, and awake, is a testament to her abilities.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">“She’s one of the best.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He nods. “That, we can agree on. How she chose to associate with you . . .” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“People change, Mal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">The look he gives me sends chills through me. It’s like being in a room with a wild animal—a wolf or a cougar. Mal clearly hates me. He has lots of reason to, I’ll admit, but he also has all the power here. I keep trying to kick my brain out of the painkiller fuzz, but it’s slow going, all uphill, and gravity’s pulling at </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">me. Miranda had been thinking quickly, making herself useful, saving me. Now I have to do my part. “Mal, I—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He quiets me by holding up his hand. “Please don’t, Benjamin. I can see the achingly slow grinding of your mind’s gears. You’re going to try to give me reasons not to kill you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Damn.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“The thing is, Benjamin, I had a plan; one I thought poetic. I would leave you in the ocean, all alone, with no wings to carry you. With no friends to aid you. Leave you in the great vastness and just . . . sail away. I could take odds on what would get you first—a shark? some other ship? drowning?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">The thought scares me more than I ever imagined it could.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“But I’m not.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Why?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Mal rubs at a spot on his left glove. “That was the other part of my agree­ment with Miranda. Her terms were that she get to demonstrate her skills on you, and . . . that I keep you alive until we reach our destination.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Thank God</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">, I think.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">He must see the relief on my face because he says, “What I promised her, exactly, was that I would keep you on the ship. And that I wouldn’t take any action to harm you. And so I won’t. Because it doesn’t matter.” He smiles at me. “Once we arrive, however, I will have my moment. Believe me when I say that I’ve been imagining all the many things I might do with you at that point.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Another scary feeling, this time one that sticks like a rock in my gut. Just then, my mind clears a bit more and I realize what he just said and that the rocking sensation I’m feeling isn’t completely from the drugs. “Did you say ‘ship’?” It’s not an airship—I would know if it was. “Are we on the water?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Your speed is as remarkable as always,” Mal says.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Cut me a little slack,” I say. “I’ve had a lot of painkillers.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“I am aware,” he says, glaring at me. He sighs. “Yes, you are on board a ship right now. A warship. She’s called the <i>Phoenix</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">“You stole her?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">He looks at me, sharp, assessing. Like a bird. “I recovered her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Of course you did</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">, I think.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“She was secured in a naval facility. My people and I liberated her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">It’s a score, of course. Military targets have long been a flame the foraging moths have flown to over the years, but as a result the pickings are slim. Even if you do find something intact worth taking, the effort of getting it operational, being able to run it, is often too much. There are plenty of rotting old hulks in naval yards and off the coast. That he found one and managed to get it to work. . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“It took years to get it running,” he says. “Time during which my people were vulnerable.” He smiles. “But in the end we were triumphant.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: 0.05pt;">Jesus</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: 0.05pt;">, I think. <i>A warship. In Mal’s hands</i>.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“The weapons?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">His smile grows wider. “Almost completely operational. That was one of the most difficult parts. She was partly stocked, but making sure everything worked and was loaded properly took some time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“I don’t believe it,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">His smile is predatory and triumphant. “That is because you have no imagi­nation. We achieved a great victory, here, my people and I. And it will be our salvation.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">The word makes me uneasy. Especially in the Sick. “So you live here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">He nods. “In some ways, the ocean is safer than the sky.” I find the words distasteful, but they make me think of Tamoanchan, an island settlement I recently visited. I think of Diego and Rosie, Sergei, even Clay. All the people Miranda and I left behind. I thought that sacrificing the <i>Cherub </i>might have saved them from attack, but that didn’t mean more wouldn’t be coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">I needed off this ship.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Where are you sailing it?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Hawaii.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">A legend of sorts. I’ve met people who determined to go there, lured by the promise of old magazines and books. “You know it’s overrun with Ferals, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He shrugs. “That’s the rumor. But it’s a series of islands. And by now the Ferals should have dwindled, equalized to a stable number. We can take our time to clean them out. And if the idea of it keeps others away, then all the better. If their maps already say, ‘Here there be monsters,’ then why disabuse them of that notion?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I shake my head. “That’s the life you’re going to lead? Doesn’t seem suited to someone like you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Things change,” is all he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">I chew on it for a bit. Mal was on his way to a leadership position the first time I met him, but he seems to have taken it quite seriously. Seriously enough to risk his life on a dream. Miranda bought me some time. But then what? Even if he doesn’t kill me right away, we’ll be stuck there. With no way of getting off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Things do change,” I say. “Let me prove it to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">Mal laughs. “You?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I can’t help frowning at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .05in; margin-top: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Oh, Benjamin. I see what you mean. You’ve developed a sense of humor.” “Mal—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“No.” The word is as hard and cold as stone. “I don’t care if you’ve changed. If you can grow wings or if you shit out my heart’s desire on command. I have you. And I’m taking you with us until I can deal with you in the appropriate way.” He leans forward. “Do you get that? You are mine.” He turns to leave. “Meditate on that on our journey.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">Then he leaves me to my solitude.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">* &nbsp;* &nbsp;*</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">They move me to something more resembling a cell shortly later, something that was probably a bunk back in the Clean. There’s a simple bed, a sink, and a toilet. I suppose it could be worse. I could have to shit on the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">They feed me, too. Scraps and slop, but it’s something. I guess Mal’s sticking to his promise to Miranda. I can imagine him rationalizing it, too. Telling himself he’ll punish me at a time and place of his choosing. He has an overdeveloped sense of honor. Something tells me that Miranda picked up on that and used it against him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Thinking of Miranda sends a pang through me—not knowing where she is, or how she is. What she’s doing. How Mal’s treating her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">There’s no way that he’s going to let her see me. That will be off-limits, even if she wants to, but. . . . But there’s this strange, nagging voice inside my head </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">that says maybe she doesn’t want to see me. I don’t think it makes sense, but it still pipes up from time to time. I keep trying to stamp it down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">And this is the problem with being stuck with no one but yourself. With no books or music or people to talk to. You start having crazy thoughts. In one of these, Mal charms Miranda and, well, let’s just say she responds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I’m definitely going to go crazy in here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Of course I search my cell for means of escape but, well, there doesn’t seem to be any. The door to the room is locked from the outside, and there are no windows or other openings inside. There is the toilet, but judging by its dimen­sions, the hole beneath it would be too small for me to squeeze through.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">Just one book</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">, I think. <i>One book. </i>It wouldn’t even matter which one. Once, when I was holed up in an old house that just happened to sit next to a Feral nest, I read the same book four times. In a row. And it was about rabbits. Another time, when Dad had dropped me off on a rooftop, circling around to pick me up later (and got delayed), I read the same romance novel twice, the second time acting out all the parts. I sometimes go to great lengths to pass the time.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">A short time later, my food arrives. Those scraps and slop. It’s skins and rinds and cores, cartilage and bone. The vegetables are just shy of rotting, the fish is too soft and has a smell that almost makes me gag. Something that was once leafy and green is now a muddy smear. Yet I open my mouth and shovel as much as I can in. Because I need to eat, and I’m hungry. I need to heal. That I don’t enjoy it doesn’t really come into it. Much. It helps that I’ve been on my own and hungry for much of my adult life. I’ve eaten all kinds of things out of desperation. This is tolerable at its worst. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Especially every time I start to gag.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I start marking the days on my mattress, scoring lines into the fabric cov­ering. One. Two. Three.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">I start talking to myself. Except that quickly that loses all appeal. I’m a ter­rible conversationalist.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">So I start thinking about the old days. About the last time I saw Mal.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">It wasn’t a good time.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="font-family: Garamond, serif; text-align: center;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.0666667px;">______________________________________________________</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.0666667px;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.0666667px;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you haven't already, don't forget to pick up a copy of the first book, <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/fallingsky.html">Falling Sky</a></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">!</span></span></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-7835444820263872722015-09-30T15:45:00.005-04:002015-09-30T15:45:55.566-04:00Read an excerpt from Supersymmetry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you like a little more science in your fiction and a little more action with your plot, and somehow you <i>haven't</i>&nbsp;tried David Walton's latest thrillers then you're really, really missing out! &nbsp;The love has been rolling in for his newest release <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/Supersymmetry.html">Supersymmetry</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Check out the first chapter excerpt below to see what all the fuss is about.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ie16oMm4ln8/VgwqVVdBr2I/AAAAAAAAMFc/5mx1get18-M/s1600/Supersymmetrey_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ie16oMm4ln8/VgwqVVdBr2I/AAAAAAAAMFc/5mx1get18-M/s400/Supersymmetrey_cover.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">“Fast-paced, mind-bending, super-scientific yet fully accessible and very understandable to the layman reader. &nbsp;Full of new possibilities and probabilities, Supersymmetry gives readers a peek into what the future may hold and the cost that comes with it. &nbsp;This is a science fiction novel full of humanity and all its inherent beauty and ugliness. FANTASTIC - KEEPER”</div><div style="text-align: center;">-<b><i>RT Book Reviews</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">“With a confident, deft touch...David Walton explores concepts of quantum physics while expertly weaving the narrative perspectives of two young women.... An engaging science fiction novel about an ultra-dimensional intelligence bent on destroying reality.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">-<i><b>Shelf Awareness for Readers</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">“Propelled by high-speed action and digestible science that makes you feel smarter just by reading about it,&nbsp;<i>Supersymmetry&nbsp;</i>is among the best in near-future science fiction.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">-<i style="font-weight: bold;">Omnivoracious</i></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">“A high-octane, high-tech romp through time and space, with lots of family drama and complex characters to root for…. Fast paced, with cool futuristic science and complex characters and relationships, this is must-read series for science fiction fans.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">-<i><b>Books, Bones, and Buffy</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">“A story with cool science and a good heart. All in all, I was completely entertained by this smart, imaginative quantum thriller.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">-<i><b>Fantasy Literature</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">--------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><div class="WordSection1"> <div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic', sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; letter-spacing: 0.25pt;">CHAPTER 1<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div><br /> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: 13.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">It would be the disaster of their generation, like the fall of the Twin Towers or Kennedy’s assassination. Sandra Kelley was one of the early responders, one of the first to see the stadium lying crushed, torn apart as if by an angry giant. She was less than two years out of police academy, a junior officer still doing patrol on the night shift. She had seen victims of traffic accidents, so she wasn’t entirely green, but nothing could have prepared her for this.</span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.35pt;">It seemed as if every police car, ambulance, and fire truck in the city had been routed to Broad and Pattison, but it wasn’t nearly enough. There had been a Wasted Euth concert at Lincoln Financial Field that night, so there were crowds of gawkers to control, and the number of injured in the parking lot alone was more than they could handle. Debris lay scattered everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">Most of the light poles in the parking lot were still intact, but the stadium wreckage itself was dark, an unexpected hole where once 2000-watt lights had blazed out into the night. The sky was overcast, a brooding bank of clouds that hid the stars and seemed to press down on the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .2pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra dialed her dad’s phone for what must have been the tenth time. The call went straight to voice mail, just like every other attempt. Her voice was shaking badly. “Dad, please call. Please get this. Tell me you weren’t at the game.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">She called her mom’s phone next. No answer. She had left three mes­sages already, but she left another one anyway. “Mom, it’s Sandra. Please call. Dad was there, wasn’t he? He had tickets. I don’t remember when, but I think it was tonight. He invited me, but I was on duty . . .” She choked on the words and clicked off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">She weaved her way around battered blue plastic seats, strewn across the parking lot alongside unrecognizable pieces of mangled metal and concrete. There were bodies, dozens of them. Some of them were whole. Others were not. She stopped, doubled over, and vomited on her shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="WordSection2"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Her sergeant took one look at her face and pointed her toward crowd control. Facing away from the stadium as much as possible, she and a dozen other cops shouted people back and strung police tape to cordon off the whole area. The first moment she could, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and called her parents again. Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .2pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Here.” Another cop pushed a water bottle into her hands. It was Nathan, from her class at the academy. She took the bottle gratefully, swished some water in her mouth, and spat it onto the pavement. It cleared some of the taste of vomit from her mouth, but not the acid taste of fear. She felt jittery and light-headed, like she was on some kind of uppers or a massive dose of caffeine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.9pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.5pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Thanks,” she said, handing back the bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Keep it,” Nathan said. He was blond and tall, with athletic good looks. The uniform fit him well. She had had a bit of a crush on him back in the day, but he had fallen for a cadet named Danielle instead, and they’d married a week after graduation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra tried her phone again, but with no result. Nathan studied her face. “You know somebody who was here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">She nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad. He used to take us all the time, when we were . . .” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together, holding back tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“They’ll find him,” Nathan said. “Don’t give up hope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .5pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">She smiled as best she could and nodded her thanks. Heavy earth-moving and construction equipment rolled in, bulldozers and front-end loaders and cranes. Her sergeant pulled her back to help with search and rescue. There were people trapped under eighty-ton blocks of concrete, but no one seemed to agree about the best way to move them safely. She found herself in crews of strangers, moving what rubble could be moved by hand. She was tired, bone tired, but she knew she couldn’t stop. Peo-ple’s lives depended on the work she was doing. And one of them just might be her father.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="WordSection3"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">The FBI rolled in and added to the confusion, waving their badges and trying to preserve the crime scene at the same time rescue workers were tearing it apart. No one seemed to know quite who was in charge. Without direct orders, Sandra did whatever she could, directing EMTs with stretchers, soothing panicked family members, and checking press badges for the reporters that swarmed the site like flies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">While she did all this, she recorded everything she saw. Like most police officers, Sandra wore eyejack lenses, the raw footage feeding into a huge database that could be merged into a single, time-tagged, three-dimensional image of the site. The detectives and bomb experts would study the data for clues as to what had happened. Was it a terrorist attack? Or just a catastrophic engineering failure? Feedback to her lenses told her which views and angles were under-represented, encouraging her to aim her vision in directions that would help fill in the holes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .5pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">The news she was getting through her phone told her the media was already pointing fingers at the Turks. With American forces in Poland and Germany blocking the Turkish advance, and the Turkish navy con­trolling access to the Mediterranean, this was hardly a surprise. The talking heads called it a Turkish attack on American soil, comparing it to Pearl Harbor and calling for war. The Turkish president officially denied it, and it was hard for Sandra to see what they would gain from such a move. Though she supposed terrorists operated under a different set of assumptions than most people.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">She hadn’t seen her sergeant in hours, so she just wandered the site, joining gangs of workers where she saw a need. She queried the central database to see what views had not yet been covered and headed in those directions, trying to provide as much data as possible to the profes­sionals whose job it was to make sense of it all. All around her, there was the horror of death, so much death that she could hardly take it in. She felt emotionally detached, floating in a protective bubble her mind had formed around the experience. Her awareness collapsed to simple tasks.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="line-height: 13.85pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Step over the twisted metal. Help lift the concrete slab. Check GPS and shift viewing angle to forty degrees.</span></i></div><div class="WordSection4"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.8pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Her father still didn’t return her calls.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.6pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Hey! Officer! Could you give me a hand?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra turned to see a young man in a black Robson Forensic cap waving to her. He was struggling to haul two black hard cases on wheels over the debris-strewn ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Finally,” he said. “What’s a guy got to do to get a girl to pay him some attention?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.45pt;">She narrowed her eyes, not in the mood for humor. “What do you want?” “Could you take one of these? This<br />is really a two-person job.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">One of the cases was the size of a large suitcase; the other was big enough to hold a bass fiddle. Sandra took the smaller one. “What is all this stuff?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“ID equipment,” the forensic tech said, puffing as he hauled on the larger case.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra imagined a lab on wheels, blood testing and DNA, taking samples from the thousands of bodies and determining their identities. “You can do that in the field?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">The tech didn’t answer. They had reached a flat area with a minimum of debris. “This will do,” he said. “Open that one up, will you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Inside she found telescoping poles, wires, and what looked like a large security camera. “What kind of ID kit is this?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“The best kind, I hope,” the tech said. He opened the larger case. Sandra didn’t understand at first what she was looking at. The case seemed to be stacked with dozens of small electric fans.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">The tech circled around to the smaller case and pulled out lengths of pipe, assembling them with ease. In short order, he constructed a ten-foot tripod stand with the camera device on top. From the bottom of the case, he extracted a box with levers and a long antenna, like a remote control. “Stand back,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="WordSection5"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He flipped a switch, and the larger case started rumbling. It vibrated visibly, chattering against the concrete.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .2pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“What—” Sandra started to say, but she was interrupted by a sound like the buzzing of a hundred angry bees. Out of the case rose a formation of two dozen quad-rotored helicopters, each the size of a dinner plate. They dipped in unison, shearing off to the right just as a second forma­tion rose up to take their place. Each formation was a perfect rectangle, six copters by four, flying inches apart and moving as if locked together. At a cue from the tech, they left their places and flowed into a new forma­tion, twenty-four wide by two deep.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .5pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">He pressed another button, and the quadcopters shot off toward the ruined stadium, doing twenty or thirty miles an hour, eight feet above the ground. Several people shouted or leapt away, but the copters veered effortlessly to miss all obstacles, breaking out of formation or angling their flight as necessary. Sandra looked after them in awe. In the darkness, their LED lights swirled like a swarm of fireflies. Above her head, the device that looked like a camera came alive, smoothly slewing back and forth as if aiming at each of the receding quadcopters in rapid succession.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Some of the people nearby threw dirty looks their way. A few picked themselves off the ground after diving to avoid the copter brigade.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Sandra forgot her astonishment and wondered if she’d just been tricked. She had no idea what this guy was doing, but it wasn’t forensics. Was he a reporter? Or was he a terrorist, out to destroy evidence or make a secondary attack?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.3pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">She undid the snap that held her pistol in its holster. “Put the remote down,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.8pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.6pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">He looked bewildered. “But—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.8pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.6pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">“Now!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .1in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .15in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He dropped the remote and held up his hands. “You don’t understand—” “What kind of stunt are you trying to pull? You said this was ID equipment.” She reached for her radio to call him in.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="WordSection6"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .8pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“It is!” he said. “The copters have RFID readers on board. I told you the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">She paused. She would make a fool of herself if she called in a real CSI. “Let me see your ID,” she snapped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.85pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“Honest,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.85pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.55pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“ID.” She held out her hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .3pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sheepish, he dug around in a pocket and handed up a laminated card. It was a University of Pennsylvania student ID.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.05pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.5pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“You’re a </span><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">student</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.3pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He looked offended. “I’m an engineering doctoral candidate in robotics and sensory perception.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.9pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.5pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“Put your hands down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">He put them down. “I’m allowed to be here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“What about the cap?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.35pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He took it off and looked at the logo. “Oh,” he said. “Some of the forensic outfits hire us sometimes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“And who gave you permission to loose a fleet of helicopters in a crowded search and rescue scene?” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0.6pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.05pt; line-height: 14.4pt;">“It’s a swarm, not a fleet,” he said. “Look, most of the people who died out there have cards in their wallets with RFIDs in them. Credit cards, gas cards, SEPTA cards. They work with magnetic resonance;&nbsp;</span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.0666667px; line-height: 19.2px;">illuminate</span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.05pt; line-height: 14.4pt;">&nbsp;them with a burst of radio energy, and they fire back a signal with a number on it. With the right&nbsp;databases, those numbers can be turned into people’s names. The quadcopters tag the number and the GPS coordinates, and boom: we have a map of the positions and IDs of every person on the site. Well, nearly. A lot of them anyway.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra was cooling down now that he seemed to be legit. She hol­stered her weapon. “What’s the camera for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">“This?” he said, pointing up at the device on the tripod. “That’s the radio transmitter. I have to use a pretty narrow beam to get a strong enough return signal through the rubble. The copters can’t carry one, so I mount it here and&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt; line-height: 14.4pt;">coordinate them. Most RFID readers are two-way, but I had to split it up: the transmitter here to pulse the energy at each spot on the ground, and the copters at the right spot at just the right time to detect any returns.”</span></div></div><div class="WordSection7"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“And you had permission to do this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.85pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">He winced. “Sort of.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.85pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.55pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“What does ‘sort of’ mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .3pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“The chief told me I could do whatever harebrained experiment I wanted as long as I got out of her way.” He gave an awkward smile. “I guess I charmed her with my rugged good looks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra smiled in spite of herself. The tech wasn’t rugged or good-looking, not by anybody’s definition. He was short and soft, with a thick face, glasses, and a hint of a mustache. His skin was a light, mottled brown, and his hair could have used a trim months ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.85pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Oh, fine,” he said. “I see how it is. You like them tall and blond.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Blue eyes, probably. Flawless skin, Swedish accent—I know the type.” “I’m just doing my job. You’d better not be lying about the chief, because<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: -.25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.35pt;">I’m going to check.” She glanced back at his ID card. “Your name is Angel?” “An-HEL. The g is pronounced with an h sound.” He rolled his eyes. Her smile vanished. “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“I know what you’re thinking. Who would name a boy ‘Angel’? Typical American. I’ll have you know Angel was the fifth most popular name for boys born in Mexico last year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“Is that where you’re from?” she asked. “Mexico?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Born and bred.” He lifted his chin high. “Spent my whole life in San Antonio, until last year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">Sandra paused. “Isn’t San Antonio in the United States?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“There you go again, with your prejudicial comments,” Angel said. “Only Americans think it’s in the United States.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">This time she caught the sparkle in his eyes. “Are you serious?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He grinned, breaking the tension. “I’d say about twenty percent of the time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="WordSection8"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;">She wanted to punch him. She couldn’t tell when he meant what he was saying and when he was just messing with her. In her current state of high tension, she didn’t find that funny. On the other hand, she was having a conversation, and having a conversation meant not looking at the scene around her, expecting to stumble over her father’s body at any moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .2pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.35pt;">The angry buzzing sound grew louder, and she turned just in time to see the swarm of quadcopters bearing down on her. She gasped and ducked, but the copters reined up short, breaking off into groups of four. Each group of four wheeled up to Angel, hovering around him for a few moments before banking away again. He snapped open a laptop and typed rapidly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .4in; margin-top: 0in; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“It’s working!” he said, the astonishment evident in his voice. “You’re surprised? Haven’t you tried this before?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.8pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“In the lab, sure, but not in real life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.6pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“You covered the whole site already?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">“No, not even close.” As the last foursome left him, the copters slid into formation and shot away toward the wreckage again. “It’ll take hours to cover everything. But that’s a lot better than days, maybe weeks, of dozens of techs with handheld readers doing the same thing. The information won’t be con­clusive; people will still have to confirm each identification, actually look at each body. But as a preliminary map, it should save a lot of effort and let family members know about their loved ones more quickly.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He rotated the laptop to show her the screen. It was an aerial map of the site, flanked by Pattison Avenue and Hartranft Street. One corner was peppered with yellow dots. Angel zoomed in on that corner, and the dots bloomed out into numbers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Each of those points is a person. Probably,” he said. “There are RFIDs in other things, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“And from that you know who they are?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“Well, I don’t,” he said. “I don’t have access to those databases. But the police do, you can be certain, and if there are any they don’t have, the feds can get them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="WordSection9"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .1in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .15in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra studied the design the dots made on the screen, swooping in zigzagging curves. It didn’t look random. “Why does it make a pattern?” Angel shrugged. “I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">She thought about what her dad would say, seeing a pattern like that. “It might be important,” she said. “If things were thrown around in a recognizable pattern, we might be able to determine what caused this, maybe even track down the source.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Another shrug. “I work in a robotics lab, but I’ll tell you one thing; this was no bomb.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.9pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.6pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">She cocked her head at him. “What do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">“There was no fire,” he said. “Nothing’s burned. And look at how the stadium collapsed—it looks more like it fell in on itself than like it was blown out. Most of the rubble is piled up inside, on the playing field. More like an earthquake. Or a sinkhole.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He was right. It was obvious, now that she thought about it. There was plenty of debris in the parking lot, but it looked more like it had been pushed by the force of the falling stadium walls, not like the walls themselves had been blown out. But there had been no earthquake; at least not that anyone was reporting in the news. “Maybe there were a lot of smaller charges placed at key spots,” she said. “Arranged so that the walls would fall in and kill as many people as possible.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Angel nodded, thoughtful. “Hey,” he said, “if we know where the people are now, and where they were originally sitting, maybe we could draw lines from their starting point to where they ended up. We could track the vectors of force.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">He was getting excited, but all she could think about was the image of her father’s body being blown out of his seat. She felt sick and put her hand over her mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .1in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .15in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">A female cop ran up to her, dark hair blown back in the wind. It was Danielle, Nathan’s wife. “Sandra,” she said, “you’ve got to come now.” “What is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 3.1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“I think it’s your father.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra’s mind rebelled at the words. She wanted to punch Danielle in her pretty mouth for daring to say such a thing. “Dead?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Danielle didn’t answer, but her eyes told Sandra everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .2pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Sandra followed her at a run to where Nathan stood over a body on the ground. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes dead. He was holding a black leather wallet, worn and familiar. Sandra looked at the wallet, refusing to look down, terror gripping her throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">She took the wallet and flipped it open. Her father’s face stared up at her from his Pennsylvania driver’s license, but she checked the name anyway. Jacob Kelley. She shook her head, trying to process what she was seeing, the information somehow failing to sink in, even though she’d been expecting it now for hours. She shook her head, trying to push the evidence away, wishing for a return to uncertainty, when it was still possible that he hadn’t been here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">Finally, she looked down. Her father lay on the pavement as naturally as if he’d fallen asleep there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">“I’m sorry,” Nathan began. She waved her hand to fend off his words, and he trailed off. He stood there, awkward, not knowing what to say. Danielle put a hand on her arm. Sandra turned and buried her face into the coarse, blue fabric of Danielle’s shoulder. She felt like she ought to cry, but the tears didn’t come. Danielle stroked her hair, while Sandra took in big gulps of air, like she was drowning.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Her phone rang.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0.25pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.3pt; line-height: 14.4pt;">The noise startled her. She reached for it automatically, and then nearly threw it away. She’d been waiting for it to ring all night, and now, when it finally did, it was too late. The automatic movement brought the screen up to her eyes, however, and she saw the number. It was her father’s number.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0.25pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">She answered.</span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.4px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 14.4pt; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.4px;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;</span>“Sandra?” Her father’s voice was warm and strong and sweet and utterly recognizable.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;">“Dad?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; letter-spacing: -0.4pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; --------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.45pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/supersymmetry.html">Supersymmetry</a> is out now!</span></div></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-26863317726818939152015-09-16T15:21:00.001-04:002015-09-16T15:21:10.374-04:00Goodbye sunshine.Even though we haven't quite reached the Fall Equinox yet, we're all painfully aware that summer is over. &nbsp;The weather can't decide what it wants to do, so we leave the house wearing boots and come home from work wearing flip flops. Or maybe that's just in Western New York. <br /><br />Any who, we're excited for Fall because we have some seriously&nbsp;<i>awesome</i>&nbsp;books coming out. &nbsp;From a quantum creature bent on destroying the world, to a war against humans and vampires, to a parallel world full of magic and gunpowder, we've got everything you could hope for this season.<br /><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/supersymmetry.html"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pT3CcJdA8Rk/VfcJkSDuDfI/AAAAAAAAL04/CEx5b6IKK18/s1600/Supersymmetrey_cover.jpg%20" width="285" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/earthflight.html"><img height="428" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oXhQMSwSP5I/VfcJns2KRVI/AAAAAAAAL1A/GRwukqGJccY/s1600/Earth%2BFlight_cover.jpg%20" width="285" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/goldthroneinshadow.html"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r9wWSpuQL34/VfcJrbKWopI/AAAAAAAAL1I/2bFEHQ6N35Y/s1600/Gold%2BThrone_Cover.jpg" width="285" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/risingtide.html"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--CucszcAVUY/VfcJtZN4gQI/AAAAAAAAL1Q/rmoCCZnxMZs/s1600/Rising%2BTide_cover.jpg%20" width="285" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/geomancer.html"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4UhHV0ah0Y8/VfcJwlYQCuI/AAAAAAAAL1Y/zKQb33QM_KA/s1600/Geomancer_cover.jpg%20" width="280" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/prisoninantares.html"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Pe9ZGyDJsk/VfcJ2_MdGuI/AAAAAAAAL1g/AE8sb8oDZig/s1600/Prison%2Bin%2BAntares.jpg%20" width="280" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/NebulaAwards2015.html"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BRI_sHVH3_c/VfcJ52Lkr9I/AAAAAAAAL1o/slmO6uGbBP8/s1600/Nebula%2BAwards%2BShowcase%2B2015_cover.jpg%0A" width="280" /></a></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-32551476458720206652015-08-18T14:34:00.001-04:002015-08-18T14:34:50.577-04:00Steampunk, steampunk, everywhere!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7XBJqc7jZm0/VdND_taxJhI/AAAAAAAAKpw/iQ8xMJRVFD8/s1600/Rise%2BAutomated%2BAristocrats_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7XBJqc7jZm0/VdND_taxJhI/AAAAAAAAKpw/iQ8xMJRVFD8/s200/Rise%2BAutomated%2BAristocrats_cover.jpg" /></a>Alternate history? Check.&nbsp;Steampunk?&nbsp; Double check. Time traveling? Wait, wait, <i>dimension</i>&nbsp;travelling? Yep, we've got that covered too.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Mark Hodder brings you all the above and more in his sprawling six-book Burton &amp; Swinburne series. &nbsp;They're actually two separate trilogies, and the last three books can be read separately from the first three, but Hodder's details seamlessly connect all his books in a way we can't even begin to describe. And this month, the saga concludes with <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/RiseoftheAutomatedAristocrats.html">The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats</a>.<br /><br />If you've picked up any of the first books, either <i><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/StrangeAffair.html">The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack</a> </i>or <i><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/ClockworkMan.html">The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man</a>,</i> or even if you started with <i><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/SecretAbudYezi.html">The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi</a>,</i>&nbsp;you'll need to see how this one ends.<br /><br /><br /><br />They say don't judge a book by it's cover, but seriously how can you not?<br /><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kz8vRROWQhg/VdNDnT_q6DI/AAAAAAAAKpI/TinJZ5DD0D0/s1600/Spring%2BHeeled%2BJack_COVER.jpg%20" width="285" /></td><td><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Oqk6K1q6Nw/VdNDrK0KNRI/AAAAAAAAKpQ/omNtppoD_1k/s1600/Clockwork%2BMan_cover.jpg%20" width="285" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Rn77HRTHPc/VdND4SkHYxI/AAAAAAAAKpU/tPvtJSM9bXI/s1600/expedition%2Bto%2Bthe%2Bmountains_cover.jpg%20" width="285" /></td><td><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dpMxjBx41hA/VdND7NxbtCI/AAAAAAAAKpc/nogBpE-9btY/s1600/Secret%2Bof%2BAbdu.jpg%20" width="285" /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlwFbThglCM/VdND92OVNYI/AAAAAAAAKpk/1IwCozx-RUA/s1600/Return%2Bof%2Bthe%2BDisc%2BMan_cover.jpg%20" width="285" /></td><td><img height="440" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7XBJqc7jZm0/VdND_taxJhI/AAAAAAAAKps/7a5X5Zz4IkU/s1600/Rise%2BAutomated%2BAristocrats_cover.jpg%20" width="285" /></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-24801764783195656342015-07-22T10:05:00.000-04:002015-10-09T13:38:01.142-04:00Inside the mind of Imago BoneEver wanted to get into the mind of a character? Well, <i>even deeper&nbsp;</i>than literally reading his or her thoughts and actions throughout a book? <br /><br />Take a glimpse inside the failing mind of Imago Bone in Chris Willrich's newest book <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/ChartofTomorrows.html">The Chart of Tomorrows</a>.&nbsp;This handy list was written by Bone to help him remember the people he's met, the places he's seen, and the creatures that tried to kill him. &nbsp;Sounds like a helpful list, if you ask me.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: orange;"><b>_________________________________________________</b></span></div><br /><div class="WordSection1"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.9pt; margin-top: 2.2pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">IMAGO BONE’S NOTES ON </span><br /><span style="font-size: 14pt;">PEOPLE, PLACES, AND THINGS </span><br /><span style="font-size: 14pt;">BECAUSE HE IS GETTING OLDER </span><br /><span style="font-size: 14pt;">AND HIS MEMORY IS TAXED</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6666660308838px;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.2pt; margin-top: 16.25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5hfXMl5v7hM/Va6gyI02Q0I/AAAAAAAAJeI/oxsf-g0E4HA/s1600/Chart%2Bof%2BTomorrows_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5hfXMl5v7hM/Va6gyI02Q0I/AAAAAAAAJeI/oxsf-g0E4HA/s320/Chart%2Bof%2BTomorrows_cover.jpg" width="212" /></a><br /><b>A-Girl-Is-A-Joy</b>: Also, Joy Snøsdatter, Joy. Daughter of Snow Pine. Chosen to be the Runethane, champion of the Bladed Isles. It might have gone easier for her if she hadn’t.<br /><b><i>A Tumult of Trees on Peculiar Peaks</i></b>: Also known as the Scroll of Years. A landscape painting that either contains or accesses a pocket dimension of accelerated time. You see, Gaunt? I can use magical jargon too.<br /><b>Aile</b>: A headwoman of the Vuos people. I heard of her much later, yet somehow I feel she belongs here.<br /><b>Alder</b>: A former wizardly apprentice, my comrade at the Gull-Jarl’s steading.<br /><b>Alfhild</b>: A human raised as one of the fey uldra-folk. A princess of the uldra, no less. It seems to have affected her mind.<br /><b>All-Now, the</b>: Mirabad term for the compassionate creator of the universe.<br /><b>Anansi</b>: An exploratory ship from Kpalamaa.<br /><b>Arngrimur </b>Townflayer: One of the Nine Wolves. You may notice a theme in their names.<br /><b>Arnulf Pyre-Maker</b>: One of the Nine Wolves.<br /><b>Ash-lad, or Askelad</b>: A peasant hero from folktales.<br /><b>Aughatai</b>: Jewelwolf’s horse. There was something very wrong with that horse.<br /><b>Beinahruga</b>: Cairn.<br /><b>Bone</b>: A fool. No, that’s not all. An old fool.<br /><b>Brambletop</b>: A young woman of Larderland. It hurts to think of her now.<br /><b>Breakwing Island</b>: A troll-inhabited island beside Spydbanen.<br /><b>Cairn</b>: A Chooser of the Slain.<br /><b>changeling</b>: A troll or uldra child, left in place of a kidnapped human child.<br /><b><i>Chart of Tomorrows</i></b>, The: The Winterjarl’s protean book, full of cryptic passages and alarming maps.<br /><b>Chooser of the Slain</b>: An agent of the old gods of the Bladed Isles.<br /><b>Claymore</b>: A troll.<br /><b>Clifflion</b>: Grand Khan of the Karvaks.<br /><b>Corinna</b>: Princess, later queen, of Soderland. I was never sure where we stood with her, but I was always sure she was in charge.<br /><b>Crypttongue</b>: A magic sword Gaunt wielded for a time. I hate magic swords.<br /><b>Deadfall</b>: A sapient magic carpet. Before I met it, those words would not have seemed frightening.<br /><b>Dolma</b>: An exiled warrior of Xembala. For a time she helped my son. I am grateful.<br /><b>Draug</b>: A spirit creature found upon the sea and within the Straits of Tid. Draugar can take the forms of dead folk you’ve known.<br /><b>Draugmaw</b>: An unnatural, gigantic maelstrom. It has Draugar in it.<br /><b>Einar Bringer of Wailing</b>: One of the Nine Wolves.<br /><b>Eldshore</b>, the: A slowly crumbling but still mighty continental empire.<br /><b>Erik Glint</b>: A foamreaver and Larderman.<br /><b>Eshe</b>: Priestess, wanderer, warrior, spy. Possibly our employer.<br /><b>eventyr</b>: Fairy tales.<br /><b>Everart</b>: Rabble-rouser of Soderland. Quite good at it.<br /><b>Fiskegard</b>: Independent-minded islands founded by fishermen, nominally part of Oxiland, periodically filled with itinerant workers. I came from a family of fishermen, and the scent was like home.<br /><b>Five Fjords</b>: A shaky alliance of the towns of Lillefosna, Vestvjell, Vesthall, Grimgard, and Regnheim.<br /><b>Floki</b>: A slaver.<br /><b>Foamreaver</b>: Can be a seafarer, trader, raider, or all of them together.<br /><b>Freidar</b>: An old tavernkeeper and Runewalker. Husband of Nan. Kind to Innocence, he was a good companion when we sailed aboard <i>Leaping Bison</i>.<br /><b>Gamellaw</b>: A region governed by old laws under which steadings are the unit of civilization, not nations. Takes in Svardmark from the Morkskag to the Chained Straits, and all of Spydbanen.<br /><b>Garmsmaw Pass</b>: A mountain pass connecting Garmstad territory to northern Svardmark.<br /><b>Garmstad</b>: A town and territory allied to Soderland.<br /><b>Gaunt</b>: What I call Persimmon when we’re about our errands. The other half of my mind.<br /><b>Gissur Mimurson</b>: An Oxiland chieftain.<br /><b>Gold-Jarl, or Gull-Jarl</b>: Ruler of the small country of Gullvik.<br /><b>Grawik</b>: The steading of Ottmar Bloodslake.<br /><b>Great Chain of Unbeing</b>: A huge artifact absorbing the power of the dragons whose immense bodies gave form to the Bladed Isles.<br /><b>Grunndokk</b>: A town paying tribute to the Gull-Jarl.<br /><b>Gullvik</b>: Name of a town and a small domain in Svardmark.<br /><b>Gunlaug</b>: An overseer at the Gull-Jarl’s steading.<br /><b>Haboob</b>: An efrit, a spirit of the desert.<br /><b>Hakon</b>: The retired king of Soderland.<br /><b>Harald </b>the Far-Traveled: Chieftain of the Laksfjord region.<br /><b>Havtor</b>: A slave in the Gull-Jarl’s steading. May his name be honored.<br /><b>Haytham ibn Zakwan ibn Rihab</b>: Inventor and gentleman of Mirabad, daring to combine natural philosophy and magic. He gave the world ballooning. I might regret that, had I never flown.<br /><b>Heavenwalls</b>: Vast fortifications of Qiangguo—and beyond!—which somehow channel the land’s vital breath.<br /><b>Hekla</b>: Huginn Sharpspear’s companion. I think she was more formidable than he.<br /><b>Huginn Sharpspear</b>: A chieftain, lawyer, and tale-teller of Oxiland.<br /><b>Imago</b>: What Persimmon calls me, amid the least or greatest dangers.<br /><b>Inga</b>: She was half of the duo responsible for Peersdatter and Jorgensdatter’s <i>Eventyr</i>. A mighty fighter, and brave.<br /><b>Innocence Gaunt</b>: Our son.<br /><b>Ironhorn</b>: A Karvak general.<br /><b>Ivar Garm</b>: Lord Mayor of Garmstad Town.<br /><b>Jaska</b>: A girl who turned Innocence’s head in Oxiland.<br /><b>Jegerhall</b>: The steading of Arnulf Pyre-Maker.<br /><b>Jewelwolf</b>: Wife of the Grand Khan and a powerful leader in her own right. As if that wasn’t enough to make me nervous, also knowledgeable in magic. Sister of Steelfox.<br /><b>Jokull Loftsson</b>: Strongest of the Oxiland chieftains.<br /><b>Jotuncrown</b>: A settlement of humans in thrall to the troll-jarl in the Trollberg.<br /><b>Joy</b>: What we all called A-Girl-Is-A-Joy.<br /><b>Katta</b>, called the Mad: One of many names for the wandering monk of the Undetermined whom we knew. A big-hearted person, though I think he regarded me as a miscreant. Truly I have no idea why.<br /><b>Kantenings</b>: The humans of the Bladed Isles, excepting the Vuos, who stand apart.<br /><b>Kantenjord</b>: It means something like “Edge-lands.” Outsiders know it better as the Bladed Isles.<br /><b>Karvak Realm</b>: The empire of the Grand Khan.<br /><b>Karvaks</b>: The mightiest nomads of the steppes.<br /><b>Klarvik</b>: A town in Soderland.<br /><b>Kolli the Cackling</b>: One of the Nine Wolves.<br /><b>Kollr</b>: A young follower of the old gods in Oxiland, whom Innocence befriended.<br /><b>Kpalamaa</b>: A mighty realm of the South. If Qiangguo is not the world’s most advanced nation, it is this.<br /><b>Laksfjord</b>: A surprisingly pleasant community near the Morkskag.<br /><b>Langfjord</b>: The steading of Kolli the Cackling.<br /><b>Lardermen</b>: Elite group of foamreavers, who made their name bringing supplies past a blockade.<br /><b>Leaftooth</b>: Head monk of the Peculiar Peaks.<br /><b>Liron Flint</b>: Explorer, treasure hunter, friend.<br /><b>Loftsson’s Hall</b>: Steading of Oxiland’s most powerful chieftain, with many allied folk nearby.<br /><b>Lysefoss</b>: A settlement beside a spectacular waterfall. I’d have appreciated it more if we hadn’t been running for our lives.<br /><b>Malin</b>: She was half of the duo responsible for Peersdatter and Jorgensdatter’s <i>Eventyr</i>. A brave soul. An unusual mind.<br /><b>Meteor-Plum</b>: The guardian of the Scroll of Years sometimes goes by this name.<br /><b>Mirabad</b>: Name for both a great city and the caliphate it commands. Once its power made the world tremble; its wealth and learning still make the world envious.<br /><b>Morkskag</b>, the: The haunted forest that divides “civilized” Svardmark from the Gamellaw.<br /><b>Mossbeard</b>: A troll.<br /><b>Muggur Barrow-Friend</b>: One of the Nine Wolves.<br /><b>Muninn Crowbeard</b>: Once a foamreaver styled “Surehand.” He changed, more than once.<br /><b>Nan</b>: An old tavernkeeper and Runewalker. Wife of Freidar. Those two were kind to Innocence and did as much as anyone could to protect their homeland. I, a selfish man, am in awe.<br /><b>Nine Smilodons</b>: The Karvak soldier we traveled with for a time.<br /><b>Nonyemeko</b>: Captain of <i>Anansi</i>.<br /><b>Northwing</b>: A taiga shaman in service to Steelfox. Powerful as friend or enemy. I would know.<br /><b>Numi</b>: A Swan-church novitiate whom Innocence befriended.<br /><b>Ostoland</b>: A heavily wooded island, of somewhat insular folk.<br /><b>Ottmar Bloodslake</b>: One of the Nine Wolves.<br /><b>Oxiland</b>: A volcanic realm, and some associated islands, in Kantenjord’s northwest. A bleak country, settled by stubborn people with notions of democracy. Clearly they are mad. It’s tempting to join them.<br /><b>Painter of Clouds</b>: Swanlings use this term for what Mirabad’s people call the All-Now; they got the name from the People of the Brush.<br /><b>Peersdatter and Jorgensdatter’s <i>Eventyr</i></b>: A surprisingly useful book of folk-tales.<br /><b>Peik</b>: A boy from Klarvik, by his own account absolutely the most truthful person that this or any other world has known.<br /><b>Persimmon</b>: See Gaunt. She is the one who should be writing this down; she has the gift for words. But she forgets little and doesn’t see the need. She remembers the time I did this, and the time I did that, and the other thing. And yet she is still with me.<br /><b>Qiangguo</b>: A vast realm of the East. If Kpalamaa is not the world’s most advanced nation, it is this.<br /><b>Qurca</b>: Steelfox’s peregrine falcon, bonded to her spirit.<br /><b>Rafnar Dragon-Axe</b>: One of the Nine Wolves.<br /><b>Ragnar</b>: Half-brother of Corinna of Soderland.<br /><b>Red Mirror</b>: A Karvak soldier.<br /><b>Roisin</b>: A Swanling priestess. A fine person, surely, but a little too cozy with <br /><b>Rolf</b>: A young Swanling of Oxiland, whom Innocence befriended.<br /><b>Rubblewrack</b>: A troll, or so she appeared.<br /><b>Runethane</b>, or <b>Runemarked Queen or King</b>: The one who commands the energies of the Great Chain of Unbeing.<br /><b>Runewalkers</b>: Traditional mages of Kantenjord. Their power derives from tracings of &nbsp;mystic runes. Some of their tracings are enormous.<br /><b>Ruvsa</b>: Pirate queen of Larderland.<br /><b>Schismglass</b>: A magic sword, akin to Crypttongue but antagonistic.<br /><b>Skalagrim the Bloody</b>: One of the Nine Wolves. I’ll say no more about him.<br /><b>Skrymir Hollowheart</b>: Lord of trolls in Spydbanen and, effectively, everywhere else.<br /><b>Skyggeskag</b>, the: An elder forest in Soderland, cousin to the Morkskag.<br /><b>Snow Pine</b>: Once known as Next-One-a-Boy or simply Next One. A bandit of Qiangguo and a companion to Persimmon and me. Our best friend.<br /><b>Smokecoast</b>: The largest settlement of Oxiland.<br /><b>Soderland</b>: Strongest and richest of the local kingdoms, principalities, chiefdoms, and what-have-yous. Therefore, the biggest target.<br /><b>Splintrevej</b>: Maze-like scattering of islands in the heart of Kantenjord.<br /><b>Spydbanen</b>: The northeastern of Kantenjord’s main islands, and home to its most violent jarls, including the troll-jarl. The Vuos people live in its extreme north.<br /><b>Steelfox</b>: A princess of the Karvak Realm, determined to conquor the Earthe in the memory of her father, the first Grand Khan. &nbsp;Even with all that in mind, I liked her.<br /><b>Storfosna</b>: A town in Soderland.<br /><b>Stormhamn</b>: A town in Soderland.<br /><b>Sturla’s Steading</b>: The home of Huginn and Hekla.<br /><b>Styr Surturson</b>: An Oxiland chieftain.<br /><b>Surtfell</b>: The great volcano of Oxiland.<br /><b>Svanstad</b>: The capital of Soderland and largest city in the Bladed Isles.<br /><b>Svardmark</b>: Kantenjord’s largest island, home to what passes for its civilized lands.<br /><b>Swan Goddess</b>: The deity said to have sacrificed herself to save the world. Accounted the daughter of the Painter of Clouds.<br /><b>Swanisle</b>: An island nation, closer to the continent than are the Bladed Isles. Gaunt’s homeland. Legend has it it’s the petrified body of the Swan Goddess. I am not weighing in on this.<br /><b>Swanling</b>: The Kantenings call the Swan Goddess’s followers this.<br /><b>Tlepolemus</b>: A fellow far-traveled adventurer who became a Larderman.<br /><b>Torfa</b>: Jokull Loftsson’s wife. By report, an exemplar of Kantening ferocity.<br /><b>Trollberg</b>, the: The troll mountain-fortress beside Jotuncrown.<br /><b>uldra</b>: A varied nonhuman folk who sometimes dwell underground and sometimes in other worlds entirely.<br /><b>Undetermined, the</b>: An enlightened being venerated in the East.<br /><b>Varmvik</b>: A town in Soderland.<br /><b>Vatnar</b>: An important churchman of Oxiland.<br /><b>Vinderhus</b>: A whaling community in Oxiland.<br /><b>Vuos</b>: A human community distinct from the Kantenings. They herd reindeer and have shamanistic beliefs.<br /><b>Vuk</b>: A man of the Wagonlords on the continent, my comrade at the Gull-Jarl’s steading.<br /><b>Walking Stick</b>: An itinerant official of Qiangguo. Also a wulin warrior, capable of esoteric combat moves. A good ally, and a bad enemy, to have. He’s been both.<br /><b>Wiglaf</b>: A legendary warrior, whose fate was tied up with the swords Crypttongue and Schismglass. I don’t envy him.<br /><b>Winterjarl</b>, the: Harbinger of Fimbulwinter and Ragnarok, or so we thought.<br /><b>Wormeye</b>: A troll.<br /><b>Xembala</b>: A paradisiacal eastern land, a source of ironsilk. There are times I’d like to be there.<br /><b>Yngvarr Thrall-Taker</b>: One of the Nine Wolves. He surprised us at the end.<br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: orange; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">_________________________________________</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.200000002980232px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.200000002980232px;">For all things Gaunt &amp; Bone, check out <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/ScrollofYears.html">The Scroll of Years</a> and <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/Silkmap.html">The Silk Map</a>!</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.200000002980232px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.200000002980232px;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><table><tbody><tr><td><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6ABOOptR7cs/Va-dJkxcDTI/AAAAAAAAJmc/ZJzDNgw3TeU/s320/The%2BScroll%2Bof%2BYears_cover.jpg" width="250" /></td><td><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UuzsYhKM4yM/Va-dUEquKoI/AAAAAAAAJmk/FwjCalr7SCA/s1600/The%2BSilk%2Bmap_cover.jpg" width="250" /></td></tr></tbody></table>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-82874037694601108992015-07-07T13:14:00.001-04:002015-07-07T13:14:34.651-04:00Missing your favorite Earth Girl?Feel like it's been <i>forever </i>since you've spent time with Jarra? &nbsp;Think you physically cannot survive without some interplanetary travel before the final book,&nbsp;<a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/EarthFlight.html">Earth Flight</a>, comes out in September? <br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oJ8wQpwJ648/VZwHGBouTfI/AAAAAAAAIsQ/MfzlTVufdfg/s1600/Earth%2B2788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oJ8wQpwJ648/VZwHGBouTfI/AAAAAAAAIsQ/MfzlTVufdfg/s200/Earth%2B2788.jpg" width="133" /></a><br />Well, luckily for you author Janet Edwards was nice enough to release some short stories featuring your favorite characters! Available now on Kindle (other devices coming soon) is the prequel collection <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0110T442O?*Version*=1&amp;*entries*=0">Earth 2788</a>&nbsp;that you can grab for only $0.99. &nbsp;Less than a buck? &nbsp;Can't argue with that bargain. &nbsp;Well, you technically can't argue with anything other than a human, unless you don't care about it being one-sided, but we don't judge.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/earthgirl.html"><img height="275" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KPo13nJRypo/VZwE2x_kGkI/AAAAAAAAIr0/ek_K71nALXo/s1600/Earth%2BGirl_cover.jpg%20" width="175" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/earthstar.html"><img height="275" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7143KRMFVSs/VZwE49UgWYI/AAAAAAAAIr8/qw8O-3Ydeww/s1600/Earth%2BStar_Cover.jpg%20" width="175" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/earthflight.html"><img height="275" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FoxycTYMfgU/VZwE6cJaOAI/AAAAAAAAIsE/dvFSzzKpz4k/s1600/Earth%2BFlight_cover.jpg%20" width="175" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>And if you haven't had the chance to hop into Edwards' futuristic world, then <i>Earth 2788</i> is a nice taste of what you've been missing. &nbsp;</div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-51592013923561696742015-06-26T14:52:00.003-04:002015-06-26T14:52:51.096-04:00Summa Summa Summa Summa...Oh summa (er, summ<b><i>er</i></b>), we're glad you finally showed up. &nbsp;And since you've suddenly got all this free time on your hands, how about you catch up on your TBR pile by the pool?<br /><br /><br /><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/superposition.html"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kMH24Jytv18/VY2Vw9iXz3I/AAAAAAAAICo/36AF990RanQ/s1600/Superposition_cover.jpg%20" width="185" /></a></td><td><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/fallingsky.html"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zsWmo5W5d2k/VY2WRHfU6KI/AAAAAAAAIC4/LNBkXdtYyfY/s1600/Falling%2BSky_cover.jpg%20" width="185" /></a></div></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/swordofthebrightlady.html"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iacdCrPgh9U/VY2XwGim4qI/AAAAAAAAIDQ/EQzoocMN-3g/s1600/Sword%2Bof%2BBright%2BLady_cover.jpg%20" width="185" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Because you know what comes after summer, and this fall you'll want to be caught up for these next installments...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/supersymmetry.html"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v7ANyK1YvVI/VY2Y3U9sDfI/AAAAAAAAIDc/ikmlGdOr5M4/s1600/Supersymmetrey_cover.jpg" width="185" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/rsingtide.html"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EbXX-vWncbc/VY2VkOxB6TI/AAAAAAAAICc/nNx4_zTosKE/s1600/Rising%2BTide.jpg" width="185" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/goldthroneinshadow.html"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eVroifJ98PY/VY2ZGSuLY0I/AAAAAAAAIDk/9JuX9X48joY/s1600/Gold%2BThrone%2Band%2BShadow.jpg" width="185" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-6698749021860511642015-06-19T11:48:00.000-04:002015-06-19T11:48:44.560-04:00Father's Day is Coming.It's been less than a week since the season finale of <i>Game of Thrones</i>, and this Sunday we're supposed to be showering dads everywhere with something they'll love. We see an action-packed, fantasy-driven void that needs to be filled! Skip the cutesy coffee mugs and uninventive gift cards and give him something that will get his adrenaline pumping.<br /><br />Read more in this months' <a href="http://campaign.r20.constantcontact.com/render?ca=f59cd276-1d3b-470c-98c0-5be793c62e49&amp;c=288210a0-1b90-11e3-bb3f-d4ae5292c40b&amp;ch=28c422b0-1b90-11e3-bb7e-d4ae5292c40b">Pyr-a-zine</a> enewlstter!Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-35343272461312494902015-06-15T13:40:00.002-04:002015-06-15T13:40:59.522-04:00Oathkeeper has arrived<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UqMDqIyK4sY/VX8MyI_4bbI/AAAAAAAAHR0/9FJ78iy1rls/s1600/Oathkeeper_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UqMDqIyK4sY/VX8MyI_4bbI/AAAAAAAAHR0/9FJ78iy1rls/s320/Oathkeeper_cover.jpg" width="212" /></a>Looking to jump into a new series? Miss the old days where elves and dwarves could still swing a sword? Well, news this month is the second book in J. F. Lewis's Grudgebearer Trilogy,&nbsp;<a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/Oathkeeper.html">OATHKEEPER</a>, and we've got an excerpt for you!<br /><br />If you like what you read, don't forget to grab the first book <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/grudgebearer.html">GRUDGEBEARER</a>, so you...ya know...know what's going on.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="WordSection1" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.0666666701436043px; line-height: 15.0666666030884px;">_________________________________________________________</span></div><div class="WordSection1" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.0666666701436043px; line-height: 15.0666666030884px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LXhk7bnbOX4/VX8Gv0TMDPI/AAAAAAAAHRk/rRDE1qr-roo/s1600/Chapter%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="40" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LXhk7bnbOX4/VX8Gv0TMDPI/AAAAAAAAHRk/rRDE1qr-roo/s320/Chapter%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="WordSection1"> <br /> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Night birds called in the outer dark, joining a chorus comprised of tent fabric shifting in the gentle breeze and the chirps, cries, and grunts of nocturnal creatures. Rivvek loved those sounds; even the sea lapping against the pier at Oot contributed to the unscripted opus.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">Combined with the scent of stale air inside the tent and the snores of another person nearby, the sensorial collage conjured memories of brighter days camping with his father the king . . . even hunting trips with his younger brother before Dolvek had become so insufferable. Rivvek had hoped his brother’s encounter with Kholster would be transformative.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">If it had been, Rivvek couldn’t see it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Elsewhere in the ramshackle encampment, Oathkeepers and Oath-breakers alike slept soundly, dreams little disturbed by the Grand Conjunc-tion’s approaching end.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Their world is about to change in ways they cannot even imagine</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">, he thought, <i>blind to the turning of the gears in the great destiny machine</i>.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.4pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">The great destiny machine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Rivvek smirked at the thought of it. Once he’d believed the gnomes worshipped a literal device that wove the skein of mortal fates. When he’d realized numbers were the gnomish religion and their great destiny machine merely a codified method of determining likely outcomes, he’d been sorely disappointed . . . and then, years later as he lay healing under the care of the Vael, he’d learned to do the math.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">The gnomes played a game with triangular tiles: trignom. Queen Kari of the Vael had given him a set during his convalescence. He had never learned to play well. Irka, Kholster’s son—a perfect double called an Incarna—always beat him, but Rivvek remembered building patterns with the double-sided num­bered tiles atop the stiff and pungent plaster in which the Vael healers kept most of him wrapped, and knocking them over to watch the trignoms fall.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">The whole world was like those tumbling tiles if you knew how to look at it, and, eyes having been so painfully and thoroughly opened, Rivvek knew no other way.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">My graduation approaches.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">Rivvek considered his true education to have begun at the Grand Con­junction a hundred and thirteen years ago. It marked his thoughts then as<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: PMingLiU; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <br /><div class="WordSection2"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">clearly as the scars he’d received afterward warped his flesh. Was it fair to hold the lack of such learning against his brother? An Eldrennai who still had his magic, whose body was whole and hale?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Prince Rivvek lay in the dark, incapable of slumber, stacking up the trignoms in his thoughts, looking at them from every angle and doing the math. The first tile would be flicked over soon. It was a tile he would have given almost anything to protect, to place his hand over the tile and hold it in place safe and secure. There were three ways to stop it he could accomplish alone, but then the pattern changed, and the new designs woven into the great destiny machine spelled doom for the Eldrennai.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">He wasn’t sure why the Zaur hadn’t started burning Root Trees yet. The math said they should. Perhaps his formulae were off in that regard, but his calculations, his own personal version of the great destiny machine, was far more accurate when it came to the Eldren Plains and the politics and machi­nations of the Eldrennai.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Those sums spelled destruction now. He had not yet been born when Uled had created the Aern, a race of warriors to defend against the reptilian Zaur and their magic resistance. For each new problem, it now seemed, Uled had created a new race and with each race, the path to doom had become more and more difficult to avoid.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Uled had wanted to restrict the Aern’s ability to breed, creating them all male, thinking he could use low-born Eldrennai women with little magic and no connections as brood mares for his warriors, but bearing Aern, with their bone-steel and unique nutritional properties, rendered an Eldrennai female barren, often after the first birth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Nine in ten. </span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Rivvek saw the statistics in his head, marveling at how much cruelty could be concealed when suffering and evil were disguised as numbers.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">To solve the breeding issue, Uled had created the plantlike Vael, their bodies designed to be both appealing to the Aern and easily capable of pro­ducing many Aern offspring, quite rapidly if the raw materials were available in sufficient quantities.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Two gallons of blood per infant to be awakened. . . . Words from Uled’s notes haunted Rivvek, but he’d needed to know, to understand, so that he could get the numbers right. His predictive model required deadly accuracy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">On the page, everything looked like it would work, but chaos, the natural tendency for change, had not been accounted for in any of Uled’s plans or designs. First came the appearance of female Aern, then male Vael.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Worse were the changes and complications brought in by individuals in<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: PMingLiU; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <br /><div class="WordSection3"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">power. Enslaved by Uled’s magic, unable to refuse a command, or break an oath, the Aern might have remained under complete Eldrennai control forever. Given the pride and arrogance so common to Rivvek’s ancestors, in fact, the entire bloodline of Villok, Rivvek was still astonished it had taken as long as it had for an Eldrennai king to break his word to Kholster, First Born of Uled’s Aern, thus releasing the Aern from the spells that bound them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">From there, even Rivvek’s predictions would have been wrong had he been alive to make them. In prolonged battle against a magic immune warrior race in possession of nigh unbeatable warsuits, even in limited numbers, Rivvek would have projected a complete genocide for the Eldrennai. His cal­culations would have failed to account for the Vael’s inborn desire for peace and mediation as well as the Aern’s affection and respect for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">The six hundred years of peace they had enjoyed had been a statistical anomaly. Rivvek wondered whether other Eldrennai comprehended how lucky they had been that the uneasy truce had lasted a year, much less six hundred. Even if Dolvek, Rivvek’s brother, had not so stupidly broken the truce by moving the warsuits the Aern had left behind as part of the truce, it would have ended eventually. At that time, the oath made by Kholster to slay every Eldrennai would have come into effect, and the path upon which they now walked would still be theirs. Only the date had been variable.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">But, as his own scarred body told the world, there are varying levels of ruination. One can be scourged near to death, be broken, and laid waste to and still heal to emerge from the flames, if not whole, then . . . still useful.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Kings die,” he whispered, his voice breaking, the words strangled. “Fathers die.” He pushed on, forcing himself through a verbalization of the hateful truth. “Everyone dies eventually. It’s making sure that death has as much meaning as . . . as . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Optimize your life and you will be rewarded in the next. That was what the gnomes believed. Rivvek was certain Torgrimm, as god of birth and death, had made it happen. Would Kholster, in his new role as Harvester, do the same? For the gnomes? Rivvek did not doubt he would. For King Grivek?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .25pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Eyes closed more against that idea than the dark, Rivvek’s ears perked up. His melted ear tugged against the tender flesh at his temple as he eaves­dropped on the Kingsguard. Their appointed rounds kept them stationed far enough from the cluster of deiform statuary to avoid disturbing the Conjunc­tion itself, but close enough that the brave Eldrennai could charge to their deaths in King Grivek’s defense. Rivvek assumed their voices were overheard just as easily by the Vael and the Aern at Oot as they were by him.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: PMingLiU; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <br /><div class="WordSection4"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Now that Kholster’s dead,” a husky-voiced Eldrennai muttered to someone, “our King will make things right between the Grudgebearers and us. You wait and see, Dace.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Was that Thalan speaking? Rivvek decided it must be.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.15pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“You think so, Thal?” Dace breathed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“She’s not even half a hundred yet,” Thalan chortled. “You think this kholster Rae’en can out-negotiate an Eldrennai king with over half a millen­nium on the throne?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .2pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">This then</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">, Rivvek thought, sitting up, <i>is the peril of my people: arrogance unrivaled by any other race and self-deception enough to make Kilke himself blush</i>.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“My prince?” Sargus stirred. Rivvek opened his eyes, making out the aura of Sargus’s life force more easily than he could his features in the night—another “gift” from his time beyond the Port Gates. When one stood too close to a Port Gate or wore armor made of Ghaiattri hide, one could see, as if through a thin veil, the creatures of the Ghaiattri’s realm. Rivvek’s sight afforded him a dual view of reality, particularly at night, the never-dark of that other place seeped into his perceptions. With it came a light that illu­minated the spirits of sentient beings around him. Sargus shone as a whorl of colors, dark, rich purples wending through golds and blues shot through with the occasional bloody red or coal black.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">When bending his mind to a problem, the black, red, and purple spread through Sargus, filling him up, the borders assuming jagged lines. Now he was mostly blues and golds. Colors Dolvek thought of as safer. He hadn’t been able to completely codify the internal palettes of others, but the inner black was not good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Sargus had fallen asleep reading. Blinking to focus on the real world as much as he could, Rivvek barely made out the glint of the other elf’s goggles in the scant light that crept in from outside. A full moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“I’m sorry to wake you,” Rivvek whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep,” Sargus answered. “Shall I—?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“No,” Rivvek interrupted. “Let me do it. I need the practice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Rivvek heard an intake of breath as if Sargus had been about to object, but the Artificer held his tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-left: .1in; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .15in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">A prince still has pride</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">, Rivvek chided himself, <i>even a magic-crippled one</i>. Rivvek rubbed his eyes, clearing away scratchy motes of “sleep” from the corners. He took a long deep breath, held it, let it out again.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Mustering a supreme effort of will, Rivvek forced his inner power to its utmost. Veins stood out on his forehead. His scars grew hot then aching— pain a constant chaser to the savor of his magic now—and fire raged forth: a<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: PMingLiU; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <br /><div class="WordSection5"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">gleaming white flame no bigger than the wisp atop the wick of a lit candle hovered above the tip of his index finger.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Warm illumination filled the tent, revealing the smiling face of Sargus where he sat in the strange folding-chair contraption of brass and leather that let him adjust the back to recline or sit up straight if needed. Rivvek didn’t know how it could be as comfortable as Sargus claimed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Thoughts focused on the bit of mystic flame, Rivvek crossed the tent and lit a lantern sitting upon a small camp table. Wiping a bead of sweat from his cheek, Rivvek scratched absently at his nightshirt, as the pain in his scars faded with the magic. The heat would take longer to dissipate, a side effect for which none had been able to provide adequate explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Find anything we missed?” Rivvek nodded at the leather tome open on Sargus’s lap.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“No.” Sargus closed the volume, shifting it from his lap to a nearby camp table. “We do still need to make sure we take care of the Stone Lord, just in case—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“One son and two daughters,” Rivvek interrupted. He waved to his left in the vague direction of the other Aiannai tents, the temporary homes of those who had followed him to Oot hoping their prince and their new status as Oathkeepers would save them from the Aern. “Each to inherit in an order we’ve already hammered out. They relayed their request via Caz’s warsuit Silencer. I handled it on my last trip.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“Who took them in?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Is it horrible that I don’t remember?” Rivvek yawned. “But with Lady Flame, the Sea Lord, Lady Air, and the Stone Lord . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“That’s all of the elemental council dealt with except for Hasimak.” Sargus yawned despite himself. “He is more powerful than you realize. Were he to oppose us, he could still—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“No.” Rivvek pulled his nightshirt over his head revealing Kholster’s scars upon his back: a diamond shape at the base of his spine with two par­allel lines marking each facet, the right-angled wedges at each shoulder, and a thumb-width line along his spine. Far from the only things that marked his back, the scars of the First of One Hundred merely filled in the space not marked by the various elemental foci that dotted his back in winglike arcs in failed attempts to restore the full might of his magic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">Once . . . </span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">he cut the thought off ruefully and reached for his traveling clothes. <i>Once these clothes were clean and fresh. </i>They were rank from the multiple visits to and from Port Ammond, but he could get a change of clothes when he got there. A bath, too. He’d almost given in to the temptation to bring<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: PMingLiU; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <br /><div class="WordSection6"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">a cleaning wardrobe, but doing so had felt too extravagant. “We’ll go with your strategy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">“It’s risky. Even with the elemental lords and ladies siding with you, the people could still riot. Even if Hasimak is with us, he will never turn on his own people. If the citizens revolt . . . he has always been loyal to the crown. Longer than the crown has existed, actually, and there are far more non-magic-using Eldrennai than there have ever been. Aern have proved how much trouble opponents without magic can be. The plan is—”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.2pt;">“Not as risky as you think it is.” Rivvek heard footsteps outside his tent flap. Two steps took him close enough to throw them open. He smiled when doing so revealed Brigadier Bhaeshal, his personal Aeromancer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Just happened to be in the area, Bash?” Rivvek teased.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“Finally used to your new schedule.” She smiled. Dressed as Rivvek was in a traveling tunic, trousers, and boots, Bhaeshal would have made Hasi-mak’s nose wrinkle in dismay at her lack of formal robes, but they weren’t really all that sensible for long flights. “Lord Artificer.” She nodded to Sargus, the light from the candle reflected in the masklike band of steel that was her elemental foci. She looked back at him with those pale white crystalline eyes, and he returned her gaze warmly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“Lady Aeromancer,” Sargus nodded back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Will you both be coming?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Perhaps I ought to stay and . . .” Sargus trailed off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Look after my father?” Rivvek smiled. “I wish there were something you could do to change his fate, but there isn’t. I need you with me . . . to stop Hasimak from taking the throne.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Please don’t even jest about that.” Sargus got up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Rivvek tried not to let it worry him. Yes, Hasimak was the oldest living Eldrennai, but it was hard to imagine how he could be a threat to . . . well, to the Aern if it came down to it. No, Rivvek was forced to ask kholster Rae’en for assistance. It would be sad to see Hasimak go, but if that was the required sac­rifice to save as many of Rivvek’s people, as many of the Eldrennai, as he could. Rivvek intended to make that sacrifice and any others the gods demanded.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Don’t forget the book.” He gestured, and Sargus picked the heavy tome up off of the camp table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“My prince . . .” Sargus put a hand on Rivvek’s shoulder and seemed momentarily surprised by the scars beneath his tunic, still hot to the touch even through the fabric. “Maybe she won’t kill him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Kings die. A good king dies for his people when it is required.” Riv-vek’s voice cracked as he whispered the words. Believing them didn’t take<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: PMingLiU; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <br /><div class="WordSection7"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .85pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">dismiss their sting in the slightest. “You just promise me we’ll make his sacrifice mean something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">They flew before dawn, sunrise catching up with them halfway to Port Ammond. The rising light lent the flowing myr grass a fiery aspect. Rivvek, carried by Bhaeshal’s Aeromancy, caught himself staring down at it and remembering another departure one hundred and thirteen years before.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.15pt; margin-top: 15.1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: 13.15pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">He’d been scarless then, a haughty elemental lord with command of all four elements as was his birthright. A Flamewing, like his mother, when he worked magic wings of fire sprouted from his back. A glory to behold. It had been like armor, that pride, and Kholster had cracked it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">The Aern himself, First of One Hundred, stood in the last light of the third day of the Grand Conjunction, bone-steel mail—uledinium, his people had called it, but Rivvek would never dare to refer to it as that again—denim trousers belted at the waist with knotted bone-steel chain. Even those clunky boots had seemed grand to the prince. A Vael princess named Kari (not-yet-queen), her head petals cascading over Kholster’s shoulder as she leaned against him, watched Rivvek with sad, wide eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .1pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“You are right,” Rivvek said hoarsely. “What you say is true. My father told me I should believe your version of any history you chose to share with me and, hard as it is, I do. But, Kholster, what would you have me do? How can I fix this? My people. My ancestors. There is no excuse for what they did to you. No excuse for my father’s order at As You Please. No excuse for the mistreatment of the Vael. Not for any of it. I came here ready to hate you. Maybe I did hate you at first, but now . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.9pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“There is nothing you can do, Oathbreaker prince,” Kholster said, his voice gentle. “But I, or my representative, will return again in one hundred years for the next Conjunction if for no other reason than that you have heard and believed. You have my oath on it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">Rivvek opened his mouth to object.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“Unasked for,” Kholster laughed. “I know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; margin-top: .05pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“I will find a way,” Rivvek answered. “I will find a way, not to make things right, but as right as they can be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Kholster laughed again. “Good hunting then, but I fear your quarry is long dead, if it ever existed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.95pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“Princess Kari,” Rivvek shook his head. “Is there anything I can offer the Vael other than my apology?”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: PMingLiU; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span> <br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.5pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“The Vael have no Litany to recite against you, Prince Rivvek.” Kari<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">smiled pityingly at him. “You are guilty of nothing in my—or our—eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Keep it that way and we ask nothing more. If Kholster agrees, you are even<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-top: 1.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">welcome in The Parliament of Ages.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.2pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.1pt;">Kholster nodded his assent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.75pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">“Such,” Rivvek answered, “is my intent.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“No promise?” Kholster asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 1.65pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">“I swear that it is my intent, but I cannot read what the future may hold<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-top: 1.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;">. . . and accidents happen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-top: 1.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-top: 1.7pt; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.0666666701436043px;">_________________________________________________________</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 11.3pt; margin-top: 1.7pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt;"><br /></span></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-13154905901065724662015-05-29T15:19:00.000-04:002015-05-29T15:19:02.918-04:00BookCon is almost here!BookCon is tomorrow! &nbsp;I know you've probably got your weekend all planned out, between panels and signings and remembering which galleys to f<strike>ight to the death over</strike>&nbsp;grab before they run out, but don't forget to stop by our parent company's booth tomorrow to meet David Walton! &nbsp;Prometheus Books is at booth #3249, and he'll be signing his technothriller <a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/superposition.htm"><i>Superposition</i>&nbsp;</a>at two different times. &nbsp;Actually, you'll probably want to hop in line to meet Allen Eskens too, author of <i><a href="http://seventhstreetbooks.com/LifeWeBury.html">The Life We Bury</a></i>&nbsp;from our sister imprint Seventh Street Books. Back to back thrillers? Don't say we didn't warn you.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fEyexyhPFh4/VWi41zz9xnI/AAAAAAAAGbk/fRIDHtO2gIc/s1600/BookconSign2015.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fEyexyhPFh4/VWi41zz9xnI/AAAAAAAAGbk/fRIDHtO2gIc/s640/BookconSign2015.jpeg" width="412" /></a></div><br />Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-17486046153448922182015-05-19T12:39:00.002-04:002015-05-19T12:39:54.196-04:00Have you been HEXED yet?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Whether you're into comics or YA novels, (or neither, for that matter) you're going to want to check this one out. &nbsp;For the first time, Michael Alan Nelson's comic book character Lucifer exists in the prose novel world. And what a terrifying world that is. &nbsp;Lucifer hunts and nabs demons, travels through mirrors, and battles some very angry witches. &nbsp; All of which makes for some exciting reading!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hqp7tIdLhlk/VVo6wpf9srI/AAAAAAAAGFI/k9T5cxJPi8U/s1600/Hexed_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hqp7tIdLhlk/VVo6wpf9srI/AAAAAAAAGFI/k9T5cxJPi8U/s400/Hexed_cover.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"An action-packed page-turner.”</span>—<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Kirkus Reviews</i></b></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“With a plot that’s fast-paced and addictive, this book is truly something special.... I found myself utterly captivated by the whole story.”</span>—<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Bibliosanctum</i></b></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Nelson creates a magical world that hasn’t been seen before…. &nbsp;Lucifer is heroine that all YA books should look up to for inspiration.”</span>—<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Seattle Geekly</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Fast paced, fun.”</span>—<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Not Yet Read</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"A dark magical adventure. It was fun, entertaining and enjoyable.”</span>—<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>Tome Tender</i></b></span></div></div><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Have you jumped on the&nbsp;<i><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/Hexed.html">Hexed&nbsp;</a></i>bandwagon yet?</div><div><br /></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-7971770705020772402015-05-04T12:17:00.001-04:002015-05-04T12:17:43.265-04:00May the 4th be with you.Happy Star Wars Day! If you can celebrate with a marathon of movies, then quite frankly we're a bit jealous. If you have even <i>more </i>time and energy, and no more pressing needs (other than food, shelter, and clothing) then you should try your hand at <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pyrbooks/may-the-4th-be-with-you/">some of these awesome</a> Star Wars crafts.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J6Ik2zLCgLM/VUeVOAdR7kI/AAAAAAAAEhw/FH4FS_2Dbbk/s1600/star-wars-may-the-4th-chewbacca-bookmark-0314-420x420-IMG_3842-400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J6Ik2zLCgLM/VUeVOAdR7kI/AAAAAAAAEhw/FH4FS_2Dbbk/s200/star-wars-may-the-4th-chewbacca-bookmark-0314-420x420-IMG_3842-400x400.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;Chewbacca bookmark? Yes please, as long as he doesn't leave hair in between the pages.</div><br /><br /><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FGjsJzhyGJ4/VUeVOIExQ8I/AAAAAAAAEhs/V594E_y5Naw/s1600/amazing_24_star_wars_cupcakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FGjsJzhyGJ4/VUeVOIExQ8I/AAAAAAAAEhs/V594E_y5Naw/s320/amazing_24_star_wars_cupcakes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;CUPCAKES! Because everything is better in cupcake form. &nbsp;Send them by the dozen.</div><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HBgGZVx1wwI/VUeYfW_G6KI/AAAAAAAAEiQ/asuJSBryqsw/s1600/1d9cfe89f75496cceae642c875869d87.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HBgGZVx1wwI/VUeYfW_G6KI/AAAAAAAAEiQ/asuJSBryqsw/s1600/1d9cfe89f75496cceae642c875869d87.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">I actually can't think of a reason NOT to stock these at work. &nbsp;Meeting in 5 minutes? Let me just grab my lightsaber...</div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ScdkZDmqyCQ/VUeZ3DQATFI/AAAAAAAAEic/7JGAzgcUoOg/s1600/97784c0bedbeda84fd6da04fd30172a1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ScdkZDmqyCQ/VUeZ3DQATFI/AAAAAAAAEic/7JGAzgcUoOg/s320/97784c0bedbeda84fd6da04fd30172a1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Seriously? This is the cutest thing ever.</div><br /><br />Visit our Star Wars <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pyrbooks/may-the-4th-be-with-you/">Pinterest </a>page for the official "how-tos" and more ways to celebrate today.<br /><br />Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-41353364454154591362015-04-22T10:26:00.000-04:002015-04-22T10:26:05.521-04:00Earth Day Giveaway! (rhyming is fun)<div style="text-align: left;">Happy EARTH Day! &nbsp;Seems like the perfect day to giveaway <b>ALL THREE </b>books in Janet Edwards' Earth Girl series, right?</div><br />Jarra is an ape, an outcast, stuck on a ruined Earth due to a rare defect that makes her unable to survive on other planets. &nbsp;She's already proven that she's just as tough as the norms, but her&nbsp;actions have repercussions that spread further than she ever could have imagined, and political unrest threatens to tear apart the delicate balance of peace between humanity's worlds. <br /><br /><div><br /></div><table><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/earthgirl.html"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IsOCIk5TE7M/VTemfRwHLwI/AAAAAAAAEgY/JecobXPGC30/s1600/Earth%2BGirl_cover.jpg" height="310" width="195" /></a></td><td><a href="http://www.pyrsf.com/earthstar.html"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h5byIvKs5P0/VTemhUOPoCI/AAAAAAAAEgg/YXxl9zOMpPo/s1600/Earth%2BStar_Cover.jpg" height="310" width="195" /></a></td><td><a href="http://edelweiss.abovethetreeline.com/ProductDetailPage.aspx?sequence=1&amp;group=search&amp;keywords=earth+flight&amp;searchContext=&amp;searchOrgID=&amp;searchCatalogID=&amp;searchMailingID=&amp;sku=1633880923"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NAkk_KLjz9w/VTemoMZYjNI/AAAAAAAAEgw/iDDqDK7Pc8g/s1600/Earth%2BFlight.jpg" height="310" width="195" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />The third and final book in the series, <i>Earth Flight</i>, doesn't even come out until September, but today's winner will receive an advance galley! Comment below, share this post on Twitter or Facebook, or e-mail publicity@prometheusbooks.com to enter. Multiple entries will only be counted once. &nbsp;One winner will be chosen tomorrow morning at 9 am ET.<div><br /></div><div>Enter to win, then get outside and enjoy our planet!<br /><div><br /></div></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27426598.post-6843669201299641522015-04-07T14:56:00.000-04:002015-04-07T14:56:45.567-04:00Out today!Hooray for today! David Walton's newest book <a href="http://pyrsf.com/Superposition.html">SUPERPOSITION</a>&nbsp;is finally&nbsp;available! If you like mind-bending, fast paced thrillers peppered with <i>actual </i>science, then you can't afford to miss this read.<br /><br /><div style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RWd7Vl50Xz4/VSQdIhMPuWI/AAAAAAAAEfw/UlF70SwZkjo/s1600/Superposition_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RWd7Vl50Xz4/VSQdIhMPuWI/AAAAAAAAEfw/UlF70SwZkjo/s1600/Superposition_cover.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; text-align: left;">"An expanding universe of delight."</span></div><div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: center;">-</span><strong style="text-align: center;"><em>Washington Post</em></strong></span></span></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;">“A truly fascinating approach to thriller writing.… The story’s strength lies in its ingenious structure that neatly unfolds against an impressive backdrop of science.”&nbsp;<b>—<i>The Big Thrill</i></b></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></strong>“An utterly addictive murder mystery with a fantastic twist…. a cleverly thought-out bit of sci-fi fun.”&nbsp;<b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></b><b>—</b><b><i>Starburst Magazine</i></b><br /><br />“Gripping, suspenseful and original.”<b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></b><br /><b>—</b><b><i>RT Book Reviews</i></b><br /><b><br /></b></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong>&nbsp;</strong><strong>Amazon</strong><a href="http://r20.rs6.net/tn.jsp?f=001Iv0nFU4ZGpomGMQTOi_fUjXn7ZWwKIK2epfSFBjj3yBfXbCr_0ovPfWb4THEobwm3cfD4Ud2vtqtTGcIyr3W1etuk0Q057w_pAT2uZ_vY87dEoOZZy8j_eq5itNdC5yE36IbgawL4wuleF6aVFIoJE_7xeE7luUbl_oDp7GTGLbMxnNxtemfAd3T82ykbdN6yG5-vj9N66pMPsKVMJC9eKSIXhwzB8txJ47yB3qaiFp0nL1CkazLm61TPVKjbWytqrpMibSXryb-FYfsHTw6_oD9IAmqbSLbqPsHLEfLhP7rroMt04imoEyOBFcAIhVZaDFP5gCXNqj7PubqdwoNekHezcJj4by394cd3Dfi6MXMGbBwsqqsRk_XU2u1zAeKggzCthBiIe4bBdB2oRfBmAKpdrzX-uuvYgkq1NA-8qJHOtiZk36pvj4wpjPhLQD-jXIlv4mh0B_PoYgp_NBSzw==&amp;c=rGO9kCN30bjyHI10lq0LyW-dVvk8Qk8yAdjtqhrgRsvRv8Pf2pG2wA==&amp;ch=nfigFrDJ70hOplAuJSFb-CVCnV9JndxHZYjbzZAiJtIDL_XNCLtdkw==" shape="rect" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">&nbsp;</a><a href="http://r20.rs6.net/tn.jsp?f=001Iv0nFU4ZGpomGMQTOi_fUjXn7ZWwKIK2epfSFBjj3yBfXbCr_0ovPfWb4THEobwm3cfD4Ud2vtqtTGcIyr3W1etuk0Q057w_pAT2uZ_vY87dEoOZZy8j_eq5itNdC5yE36IbgawL4wuleF6aVFIoJE_7xeE7luUbl_oDp7GTGLbMxnNxtemfAd3T82ykbdN6yG5-vj9N66pMPsKVMJC9eKSIXhwzB8txJ47yB3qaiFp0nL1CkazLm61TPVKjbWytqrpMibSXryb-FYfsHTw6_oD9IAmqbSLbqPsHLEfLhP7rroMt04imoEyOBFcAIhVZaDFP5gCXNqj7PubqdwoNekHezcJj4by394cd3Dfi6MXMGbBwsqqsRk_XU2u1zAeKggzCthBiIe4bBdB2oRfBmAKpdrzX-uuvYgkq1NA-8qJHOtiZk36pvj4wpjPhLQD-jXIlv4mh0B_PoYgp_NBSzw==&amp;c=rGO9kCN30bjyHI10lq0LyW-dVvk8Qk8yAdjtqhrgRsvRv8Pf2pG2wA==&amp;ch=nfigFrDJ70hOplAuJSFb-CVCnV9JndxHZYjbzZAiJtIDL_XNCLtdkw==" shape="rect" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Best Book of the Month!</a></span></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;<strong>iTunes "20 Best Books of April" and featured on <a href="http://tw.apple.com/whatwerereading">What We're Reading</a>!</strong></span></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></strong></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong>Listed as a "mind-blowing" book of 2015&nbsp;</strong><strong>on&nbsp;<em><a href="http://r20.rs6.net/tn.jsp?f=001Iv0nFU4ZGpomGMQTOi_fUjXn7ZWwKIK2epfSFBjj3yBfXbCr_0ovPfWb4THEobwmxhz2x_FSmnw3-5QpEHF71Z2nkx0olKZImboOShXzT_oikFbPfRSkqv4hViA_1A8CkJE8DFdPDqEjruAU2xoC2GoX8wnhGnDoOpljJWd1Yg_Sz6jc4Q7FsbEB3j83pf13Ii2Vki6jFpVRsNja5ym2LTo218caNLnbFtxGpGnsfedWZRKiRXcdjQ==&amp;c=rGO9kCN30bjyHI10lq0LyW-dVvk8Qk8yAdjtqhrgRsvRv8Pf2pG2wA==&amp;ch=nfigFrDJ70hOplAuJSFb-CVCnV9JndxHZYjbzZAiJtIDL_XNCLtdkw==" shape="rect" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">io9</a></em></strong></span></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Lisa Kayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14578593003811737367noreply@blogger.com0